


A Hoard of Broken Silver

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Arguing, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Language, Fist Fights, Handcuffs, M/M, One Shot Collection, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 35,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Caches and chests aren't as easy to find as one assumes. The swamps of Velen, the rocks of Skellige, and the thickets of Toussaint all have ways of hiding what is dear and greedy to its owner. Care is needed, or a Witcher's eye, and even the simplest things can get lost when focused too broadly on the surface. Sometimes all it takes is a different perspective to see the hoard; Pinebark eyes instead of golden.(Or, a collection of scraps, drabbles, and left behind works from years of collecting dust on a harddrive.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Vernon Roche
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	1. Liquor and Tea (Geralt/Roche)

**Author's Note:**

> To my ghost - In case Discord fails us; And to Orphaning - For when I fail me.

He didn’t know who started it. It was him who initiated the beginning of their drinking; Him and a Witcher had very little to talk about that didn’t revolve around his former King. But what transpired beyond the fourth cup was a bit of a haze and fog of sordid memories. He remembered the topic moving from politics to enemies, Geralt talking quietly about his problem with Tailles and their previous history, which he recalled being a rather lackluster reveal. Somehow, his life was dragged out, and it resulted in a heated debate about Iorveth and his problem with the Scoia’tael overall. If he truly liked killing and the morality of it. 

Morality, from a _Witcher’s_ perspective.

Except from there, instead of moving into rational discussions or ethics, or whatever, it somehow devolved into speaking about lovers. No, more specifically, about sex. How Geralt was rather unmoved by the topic while he flushed with each mention of human genitalia and the things they did. It was somewhere in there that one of them - Maybe him? Perhaps it was Geralt? - made a move. Slight, yet purposeful. Where closeness became a game instead of an abhorrent notion and the actions they did were slowed down so as to tease the other.

How fast life could unravel when liquor was involved. Truly pathetic.

He had licked the rim of his mug a few times, pretending to be concerned with not wasting a drop, but he had deliberately let the foam collect on his lips. Antagonizing Geralt - _a witcher, for fuck’s sake, didn’t that clue into his thick head?_ \- before he would brush it off like it was nothing. But Geralt wasn’t innocent in it either, nor did he seem disgusted by his subtle taunts. He would study him, let his hand linger near his, suggest they perhaps play cards or dice, or call it a night. Prying into what they really wanted - Even though they were near drunk.

Or at least one of them was.

Yes, he had called his bluff, slurring something about Witcher’s not being able to stay up, emphasizing the word with smugness. A purposeful double meaning and Geralt damn well knew what he implied.

So did it really shock him when he found himself pushed against his desk? Geralt against him, his cat eyes searching his own for confirmation on what he had been taunting. Asking permission for a game he was too dumb to play. In his bloody haze, he had slipped his leg between the Witcher’s and pressed, feeling the bulge on his thigh, but could he deny it didn’t thrill him? The size alone excited his cold, frigid blood? They were drunk - Gods, he had to assume Geralt had been too - and he was more than willing to forget his circumstances. That his thin tent wasn’t going to muffle his groans and pants, that his King still hadn’t been avenged, and that the bloody Kaedweni bastards were nearby, waiting for their chance to fuck things up even more.

He wanted reasons; Begged for them. And as he focused, he knew the reality behind the fog; He had desired Geralt.

Whatever came next could only be a blur. To _cope_.

Hands roamed, Geralt made some snide comments he remembered he couldn’t properly counteract, and at some point, his chainmail and gambeson was hauled off, leaving him open for torment. But he did recall when Geralt first kissed him. How timid he was and how it drove him absolutely _mad_. He didn’t want soothing kisses and sweet murmurs. He wanted it rough - dirty. Where his lack of inhibitions weren’t going to put his partner off and he could finally release some of the pent up frustration he had been keeping in.

When he pressed, where he demanded that Geralt get cruel and harsh with him, the damned bastard didn’t give in. Like he was punishing him for wanting it over fast. He had been pinned to the desk, the Witcher running his tongue down his neck, nipping at spots with a softness that almost tickled, and he nearly lost it from the annoyance he felt. That he had no _control_. That feeling that slurred the lines together and made him forget the other parts.

That was when he had been hauled up and pulled over to his mattress. Was it? No, it was. After time had bent and fractured, he could at least recall that. The motion of his body hitting the thin pallet hard, the dark blue colors that swam overhead and Temerian lilies spinning in the dark before Geralt was on him. Pressing. _Rubbing._ And fuck if he didn’t jerk his hips back, too disorientated to yell at him for being an ass or the fact they were damned in a camp with no bricks to muffle sound.

Everything meshed into a flurry after the rationality was pulled from his mind. Where his chaperon started to unravel, his britches were pulled down just enough for his cock to be freed, and his neck was bitten, the sensation making him nearly come. He held back - he had no idea how - but it was enough to endure the strange texture and feelings that were applied to him. Some he could identify, such as Geralt’s fingers gripping his shaft, the saliva that coated his collar, the sloppiness of his tongue against the Witcher’s. But others became too nuanced for him. There had been a prickling feeling in his spine, an unidentified wetness pressed between his legs, and a friction he didn’t understand. Slick, almost slimy, that slapped against his own cock.

He thought it had been Geralt’s own prick sliding against his own, but his drunkenness only made the Witcher out to be a strange form in his memory, with the cat eyes staring into him, watching him act like a fool. Twisting like a snake caught under the tines of a pitchfork, moaning like a bull mutt in heat, his eyes constantly closing and his conscious fading in and out.

This was what was left; The problem he had in the present. He had woken to himself laying on his mattress, alone, disheveled, and undressed. As if what had happened had been a bad dream.

It left him confused - along with being highly embarrassed. He didn’t remember it all, other than bits and pieces, ones that made him flush and chastise himself for doing such a thing. Yet there was a hard undertone to it all.

He wanted to be awake to pleasure Geralt back; He had missed his chance.

Gods drown him. He was supposed to be rational - smart. Not a _drunken shithead_ like his father.

No, the world had not stopped. The memories in his head belonged only to him, hopefully unshared to the rest of his camp, but it was troubling the implications that what had happened had brought. A cold chair and stale water were enough to remind him of his position and duty, but what had transpired had to be forgotten. What had happened - Gods, how stupid could he have been? - needed to be beaten into nothing. Silenced.

_Buried._

He didn’t forget about Triss, the remembrance only bringing further shame to his actions, and he paced slightly as he collected himself, dripping cold water down the back of his uniform as punishment. She was the reason Geralt was a little on edge; The Kingslayer had taken her, which had stressed him. The ordeal had made Geralt so much easier to push into a corner, and he was fighting for her in the end. Revenge for her, not Foltest. He had accepted that, though it still made him angry.

Geralt had been clear the night they had sailed from Flotsam. He confided in him and he knew of their plans once he got her back. To vanish into the North together - Alone. Like a prince and princess from a fairy tale. 

Meaning _his_ unsettling desire would never be reciprocated. 

Not that it should. 

Yet there was a flush of jealousy in him. Of anger from Geralt still shrugging off his King’s death. Furthermore, he didn’t know who started it last night, but Geralt hadn’t retreated. What did that mean?

Was that just what Witchers did when drunk? Or-?

_What did it mean?_

Everything compounded in his mind as he finished the last of his dressing, his mood souring deeply as his dignity and pride were further bruised for being so mindless and _childish_.

Yet, when he stepped out in full uniform, not bothering to look at his men, he was taken aback to see Geralt leaning on the barrels beside his tent. Waiting. Watching.

It shook him to his core.


	2. Wolfsbane and Sulfur (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started April 18th, 2018.

“Are you sure he’s even gonna fuckin’ show,” Thaler said for the fourth time, shuffling his deck. Gods, he was getting sick of him asking.

“Will you just damn well play?” Roche said from where he leaned against the map of the North, watching as Dijkstra ignored the question as well, his fingers almost drumming on the table as he waited for Thaler to hurry the fuck up. The three of them were growing edgy with impatience and anxiousness, though Dijkstra still maintained a semblance of professional detachment. He, on the other hand, could feel his gut beginning to churn, and he could see Thaler tapping his foot on the rug. 

They were uneasy, though, they had some right to be. There had been too many mistakes already, too many failed attempts, and Radovid was sitting in the bloody harbor. As if he was mocking them. The three _‘assassins’_.

More like the three fucking idiots.

Gods, they had been so close a week ago. He could have lodged a bolt into the madman’s brain, changed the course of their actions; Of the North. Except nothing was ever that simple anymore, and he was forced to lower his crossbow and _let_ the whoreson walk away. To watch him go back to the safety of his ship, where he couldn’t get a clear shot, where the bastard was safe behind his hoards of mindless men. The last of his soldiers that actually believed his insane ramblings.

_He could have ended it. Yet he was told to stand down._

The memory was still bitter in his mouth and he dug his fingers into his crossed arms, his body growing tense along with the impatience swimming in his bloodstream. Radovid needed to die. For Temeria. No, for the North. It was the only way peace would reign again. That their nations could rise up and become the once grand pillars they had been - overflowing with mead and gold, with their allies pledging their armies. Kaedwen, Aedirn, maybe even Kovir and Poviss. The great Northern Nations!

…Bloody hell, who was he kidding. Like that would ever happen. Radovid’s death was the only thing that would appease Emhyr, and the damned whoreson was the only ruler that mattered now. Gods, it sickened him and he moved to bite his thumbnail, his teeth digging into his flesh, brooding over the matter again. He was used to political intrigue and operations, but this? It felt too loose - too uncomplicated. Too fucking complacent on his part. And Thaler’s. What happened to the Temerians that would sacrifice themselves for their country? That served Foltest without delay? Or was he getting so old the thought now scared him? He honestly couldn’t tell.

Now they, two Temerians and a incognito Redanian, were waiting on one key component for their last idiotic plan. One that hinged on if _he_ showed - If he would take the bait. 

Geralt of Rivia.

Gods, it didn’t feel right to rely on him again, but they had no other choice.

Thaler dropped his deck on the table at last, drawing ten cards before he placed the image of Foltest down, his painted form making Roche internally cringe in pain. He needed some air. Or something strong and harsh to drink. He was growing moody and sour, and not just from the worry that Geralt wouldn’t come. Something was bothering him, but he was too concerned to pinpoint what. Or whom.

“Roche,” Dijkstra said, snapping him from his jittering thoughts. “Sit down or something. You look like you’re going to give birth to a damned razorback.”

Hilarious.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. Which of course was a lie, but he wasn’t going to damn well admit that to Dijkstra.

Thaler merely arranged his cards in his hand, and he caught sight of the image of the spymaster’s card with a lipstick stain on the corner. Why that unsettled him, he couldn’t say. “Roche, if I had a piece of coal and I lodged it up your arsehole-”

He immediately regretted to ever agreeing to come early.

“-You know what we’d find in a ploughing week? A fuckin’ diamond. Or diamond dust, because you’d probably grind that down in two minutes of fuckin’ standing, like a Cintrian whore.”

Leave it to Thaler to put things so eloquently. “Are you drunk?” he honestly asked. The idiot only threw down his spy card, drawing two in turn - not very good cards - before he shot him a look.

“No. But you should probably throw back a fuckin’ few and loosen up. You’re making the rest of us nervous.”

He narrowed his eyes. Of course, he was being blamed for the tense atmosphere. It didn’t surprise him, but he was growing tired of it. All of them were on edge, and he found himself glancing to the door, his tongue running over his gums. He wasn’t the cause of this. No, this was all because of _Radovid_.

“Roche,” Dijkstra said, and he caught him pouring a bottle of ale into one of the mugs by his hand. “Drink. Your boyfriend will come.”

Now he was getting annoyed. “Go plough yourself, Dijkstra.”

The bastard only snorted, moving to toss down his own spy card, picking up two from his deck. “I’d rather not, Roche. But fine. Stand there like a bloody lass on the rag, waitin’ to spread her legs for her traveling man.”

Even Thaler raised a brow at that.

“Fuck off, Dijsktra,” Roche said, this time with an edge to his voice, the insults starting to grate on him. He really hated Dijkstra’s constant jabs concerning him. “Geralt’s my damn ally. You’re the one with… the obsession with him.” 

Weak, but it was all he had. Especially with his face growing hot with embarrassment from the mere thought of what the bastard had implied. He _loathed_ it when Dijkstra started in on him. He was an adult and it shouldn’t have even affected him, but the way he said it; The memories it conjured. It drove him mad. “I’m not the one who followed him around Novigrad to find a bit of coin. One you would think someone in your position would keep better care of.”

Of course, Dijkstra only snorted at his pathetic attempt to banter. “I kept track of him because unlike you, I don’t sit in a cave shitting in a bucket waiting for a patrol to walk by. I run a business. One that is guarded just fine.”

“Didn’t stop you from getting robbed.” He pointed out.

“Yes, because I really need to take advice from the man who fucked up the overthrow of the King of Kaedwen. Makes me question why you’re even here again.”

“Dijsktra,” Thaler said, but he ignored him. Roche only narrowed his eyes. Gods, he couldn’t stand Dijkstra, and his jab made him press his tongue harshly against his cheek. Fucking whoreson.

“Though, I am curious on where you heard such a thing about my money problems,” Dijkstra said, almost offhand, but his beady eyes honed in on him like a feral badger on an injured rabbit. “Geralt tell you himself while he was ploughing you? Or did you grease up some of my guards?”

“Fuck you,” Roche spat, not bothering to hold back his vitriol. “I damn well worked intelligence, you fucking prick. I know how to dig into concerning matters as well as you.”

“Funny. If that were true, you would have been aware your King was going to be slain, wouldn’t you?”

“What did you say-?” he snarled, moving to grab his sword, and Dijkstra gave him a hard look, moving to set down his cards and pick up the blade at his side.

“Dijkstra,” Thaler warned, his voice changing into a more dignified tone before he folded his cards, turning to shoot Roche a look. “Roche. Both of you. Settle the fuck down.”

Dijkstra only set his hand on the pommel of a sword, moving to set it against the table. As if the bastard could intimidate him. He remained at the ready, his eyes burning holes into the prick. If he didn’t bloody well need him, his sword would already be through his damn ribs.

“Sigi, mate, leave Roche alone,” Thaler said, picking his cards again, though he was a bit more cautious as he did. Like he should be pulling out a weapon of his own. “I’m fuckin’ starting to wonder if you do have an obsession, just not with Geralt.”

Dijkstra finally tilted his head, glancing at Thaler for a moment, like he was a daft child. “I don’t have an obsession with anything, Bernard. Unless you count keeping your clients happy so they don’t burn down the bloody city.” He once again turned to lock eyes with Roche, and the former Temerian Commander nearly bared his teeth. “I just ain’t fond of men who keep buggering up my plans.”

“What?” he growled. Dijkstra sniffed slightly.

“You heard me. _Commander._ ”

Fucking prick. He was purposely goading him on, but he was already riled. What was a few insults more. “I followed your damn orders that day-”

“-Which I retracted. If you bloody well didn’t piss off so fast, you would have got my other note to take the shot. But no, you always have to throw a fit-”

“I went to scout for Nilfgaardians after I got your fucking letter. You know, the job I initially set out to do. Guerilla warfare. Do you know what that is? Have you ever stepped outside of this city, or would the motion be too much work for your damned heavy ass?” Roche snapped in, not caring that he was using a low blow.

“It’s clearly too much work for you,” Dijkstra said, not missing a beat. “From what I hear, all you ever do is sit in your little cave and make your men do everything like a bloody overfed sow.”

“I’m a Commander, you prick. It’s my job-”

“Boys,” Thaler tried to interrupt.

“-To command them. Something you can’t fucking do.”

“Please. Whose all downstairs, Roche? They sure as shit ain’t your pathetic men. Now I’m beginning to see why you were so desperate to have someone help you with Radovid. You have no damn nuance of how things are run, nor any patience.” He gave him a once over. “No wonder Temeria fell.”

He nearly lost it, and he moved to slam his hands on the table, his teeth baring at Dijkstra like a bloody hound. “I fucking risk my ass out there every day, you ploughing piece of filth. What do you do, Sigismund Dijkstra? Other than ingest all the food of Novigrad?”

He didn’t even bat an eye. “I run this city. Commander.”

“Poorly,” he spat. “Just like how you ran Redania from an acceptable country into shit hole.”

He saw something flash in Dijsktra’s eyes - a dark emotion. For once, he finally insulted him where he hurt, and the bastard pushed himself out of his seat, dropping his cards to lean toward him, pushing on his bluff and anger.

“At least I don’t spread my legs for every monarch that comes into Temeria,” he said. “Tell me, Roche. When you went to the peace talks, how hard did you suck Emhyr’s cock?”

He went rigid.

“Or did you only get on your knees for Foltest?”

“Why you-” He grabbed his sword once again. _Fuck this!_

“Enough! Both of you!” Thaler snapped, shoving up off the bench to slam his hand down near Roche to make him back down, his real accent clear for a moment making Dijkstra blink in shock. Seemed the Redanian Spymaster didn’t know fucking everything. “I didn’t come here to listen to you fuckin’ cunts complain like hungry whores over a cock! So either shut your fatherfuckin’ mouths or drown them in drink. Pick whichever one will make you stop talking out of your asses!”

“Thaler-”

“Shut it, Roche!” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. “I don’t want to fuckin’ hear it! You either, Dijkstra! We’re bloody here for a reason. _Radovid_. If you two can’t ploughing play nice, then go out back and fuckin’ gut one another. Or screw. Whatever comes first! Meanwhile, the rest of us will do our bloody fuckin’ jobs and fix the North. Or have you forgotten why we’re here?”

It effectively both shut them up. For a moment. Only he couldn’t take it anymore, being in the same room as _him_. 

“I’m going to get some air,” he muttered, shoving off from the table. 

“Then go,” Thaler said. Dijkstra only picked up his cards. As if he cared.

He ignored the damn bandits and whoresons lingering below, some stepping aside to let him past, but others gave him odd, judgmental looks. As if they really believed Dijkstra. It was irritating, to say the least. Too many men around him were under the whoreson’s power, and it made him feel like a deer crossing into the dark part of the forest that wolves were known to sleep in. As if one wrong move would have him impaled against a wall. Even though he wasn’t at fault.

Maybe he was just being paranoid, but Novigrad always brought out the worst in people. No, more accurately, it brought out the worst in him, and as soon as he stepped out the door, the stench of salt air and dead fish hitting his lungs, he knew he made a mistake. The smell of the city was unbearable.

But he couldn’t back down now. He had to suffer with his choice, his hand moving to pull out his pipe as he went to away from the door, his fingers searching for his flint. Three strikes got it lit and he slumped against the wall on the far side, down the alley piled with damp sacks and rotten grain. For a second, he chewed on the end of his pipe, letting his anger take hold, his nails scratching into his pommel as he imagined shoving the end right through Dijkstra’s throat.

Then it faded. Just as everything did. And he was left slumping, his breath exhaling smoke along with a sigh, as he did every night at the partisan camp. Where he wasn’t given any peace of mind.

This was bringing out the worst in him. Worse than when he was scheming against Henselt and the aftermath that brought. He was constantly on edge, unable to clearly communicate his motives to his men, taking the brunt of criticism and hatred because Emhyr had set his sights on their once peaceful domain. Even Ves had given him flack for agreeing when he was forced to admit their plans to her, but she backed off the day after when he had taken a bolt in the hip.

Only to bring it up to him later when he was prying the damned thing out of his body. No one was happy. _He_ wasn’t happy, and he remembered the cold feeling in the cave after that, how he carried the bucket and rag out to the woods by himself, blood staining his pants and old rags. None of them attempted to help.

Because they were all at a loss on what they were even doing. Nilfgaard killed their king. Now they were doing its bidding.

The memory made him sigh, his hand moving to hold his pipe gently as he exhaled, looking up to the hazy sky above. Emhyr was cruel, there was no doubt. He ruled with a manner of order that bordered on deranged, but he never crossed into the territory that Radovid did. Where his soldiers were almost expected to find mages, and if they didn’t, they made them out of accusations. He didn’t want that for Temeria - to have his homeland ruled by fear. The Scoia’tael had been enough, and even then, they were only pockets in an overall vast countryside. But Radovid’s ideals were far more dangerous, infecting even the smallest villages. No one who showed an interest in simple things would be safe.

Nilfgaard was unreasonable, but as long as they did what they were told, no one was going to be disemboweled in front of the village. Anyone who displayed any sign of magic wasn’t going to be raped and butchered.

What fueled him more was the thought of Anais being forced to marry such a man. No doubt Adda would be disposed, another thing that bothered him. But what if Anais did something to cross Radovid? Would he be forced to watch the last of Foltest’s line be impaled on a pike? To burn at the stake? He couldn’t risk it - no, he couldn’t allow it. Emhyr was a bastard and a whoreson, but he didn’t give a care about Foltest’s last child.

_Radovid did._

And he would rather throw away his life taking the whoreson down if it meant Anais would be safe.

Gods, he was growing weary again, and damned anxious. The King of Redania was a stone’s throw away in the harbor, but they couldn’t act. Not until Geralt came - _If_ he came - to act out Dijkstra’s plan. If he failed to show or wasn’t interested, where did that leave him? Who would be willing to possibly storm the ship? The King had been ignoring his letters to meet at the chess club. He couldn’t stage an assassination without possibly losing all his men and possibly his own life. So where did that leave them?

How suicidal was their mission going to become?

The stress was starting to get to him and he moved to rub his eyes, his index finger harshly stroking the side of his pipe. Shit, why was everything so damned difficult? Things were supposed to be smoother after Loc Muinne, not so muddled that it felt like he was wading through manure.

He didn’t even hear the person that came up to him, clearly noticing his fatigue. “You don’t look so good.”

Great. Now he was going to have to deal with some asshole looking for gossip. Or a handful of crowns. “M’fine,” he said, trying to brush them off. “Just tired.”

“Maybe if you didn’t sleep in a cave-”

“What?” he snapped, immediately jerking his head up only to come face to face with a pair of cat eyes and a man with hair as white as the snow on the blue mountains. Someone he owed a great debt to. “Geralt-?”

He actually _fucking_ showed up.

The Witcher barely smiled, though he gave a small shrug. As if he was mocking his disbelief, clearly amused by his reaction. “Surprised to see you out here. Thought you liked staying in the shadows these days.”

He nearly scoffed, moving to rub his face once more. To wipe off his exhausted expression. “I’d prefer to be in Temeria,” he muttered, almost sourly. “But I have to do what I can to survive.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite, Witcher,” he said.

There was a terse pause - almost as if Geralt was going to insult him or something - before their eyes locked and he held the Witcher’s gaze, watching him carefully. He did the same. For a second, it was like he was back in the La Valette castle dungeon, staring at the man who had been accused of murdering his king.

Only, Geralt’s cheek began to twitch. Then it moved up slightly, his eyes softening in the process. It wasn’t what he would call a smile, but it was the closest he was ever going to get with the man. Immediately, he sighed, pushing off the wall to greet his old ally, one that he hadn’t seen in weeks. Not since… Well. Best left unsaid.

“How are you, Geralt?” he asked.

Geralt again gave him a look as if he was amused, but he couldn’t rightly tell. Probably better that way. “Fine,” he said. Always quick and to the point. He had to admit, he envied his lack of emotion in social situations. It made things go a lot smoother than with those trying to pry and manipulate him.

“Have you come to help?” he asked, moving to douse his pipe, casting him an almost eager glance. Now that he had come, they could start. _He_ could mobilize his men. The Witcher’s mouth twitched slightly, but he didn’t catch it fully. It was more of a mere twitch.

Well, until he spoke. “I suppose.”

Didn’t take a genius to see he wasn’t enthused about it. Not that he could blame him. The whole situation was rather surreal, to put it one way. Still, he had to convince him, or at least acknowledge he was doing them a real favor.

“I - We really appreciate this, Geralt. Truly. You have no idea what this will mean for the North.”

Geralt moved to crossing his arms, his expression growing grim. He clearly wasn’t impressed by the sentiment. “Roche,” he said, his voice steady. Calm. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t like this. One bit.”

He sighed. “I don’t blame you. But for Triss and Yen-”

“Stop,” Geralt immediately cut him off, his voice tinged with annoyance and when he caught his eye, he saw the coldness behind them. He misspoke. And it had pissed the Witcher off. “Don’t. Don’t act like Dijkstra and bring them up to convince me. We fought together enough for you not to insult me like that.”

He slowly closed his mouth, feeling the tension rise between them.

_’Way to fucking go, Roche.’_

“I just can’t get my head around this. Around you killing a King that six months ago, you wanted to hand Anais over to. He was your ally. Now you want him dead?” Geralt’s head tilted slightly, as if he was confused by him. No, he read him wrong. It wasn’t confusion, it was bloody worry. As if he was the one throwing himself headfirst off a cliff. “You’re a loyal man, through and through, Roche. And painfully honest. Are you really telling me Radovid not helping your team of guerrilla's was enough to make you plot his death?”

It was his turn to press his lips together, his cheeks flushing slightly. Of course that wasn’t the full truth. He wasn’t that fucking petty. Yet there were things he couldn’t freely admit, even to someone he had been close with. It left him looking guilty, almost like he was confirming it, but he couldn’t bring Geralt in on the grander scheme.

Not _yet_.

Only his silence didn’t make him look very good. Quite the opposite - it made him look like a damned child.

He clenched his jaw, thinking over his words, and quietly he moved to tending to his pipe, wrapping it in the soft leather for protection before he placed it away in his satchel, making sure it was tucked down deep. Geralt only stood waiting, patient, until he finally got his head out of his ass and started talking.

“Of course I’m not alright with this,” he muttered, refusing to catch his eye now. As if this wasn’t making him look like a fucking petty brat. “Do you think I want to do this? That I take some sort of sick joy in slaying kings? If I had another choice, I would already be down that path, but I’m left with this.”

Geralt’s sigh didn’t help his mood. “Roche. Do you really think this will get Temeria back? That Radovid dying will accomplish anything? That Emhyr will just withdraw?”

He nearly bit his tongue.

_Emhyr had been the one that ordered it. He didn’t have a choice._

“Roche?”

He forced himself to speak, but the words were bitter on his tongue. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Just what will happen. And that’s movement toward a free Temeria.”

Geralt crossed his arms, and he flushed as he lowered his eyes to the stones under their feet, his pride burning in shame. He didn’t _want_ this, but he had no bloody choice. He never had a damned choice. All he could ever do now was ploughing bow to the Emperor and beg him for his country back. An action that left him feeling like a whore and gave Dijkstra too much ammunition to use against him.

Bloody hell, he had bested Iorveth in Flotsam and killed a mage for his Queen. Now he was reduced to… _this._ In front of his friend, no less.

Thankfully, the Witcher didn’t press him. He could see he wanted to, there was an unmistakable exasperation in his eyes that he knew meant he wanted an explanation; Even a poor one would do. Only, Geralt always had been polite in certain social circumstances, whether he realized it or not. Instead, he was left sighing, his shoulders slumping, before he changed the topic.

It honestly made him sigh himself. It was a good reminder on why, despite it all, he could trust Geralt. Not a lot, but more than he gave most men. There was just something undeniably innocent about him.

_He wasn’t stupid like he was._

“Fine,” Geralt replied after a few minutes of studying him, his eyes contracting when he looked toward the sky. “I suppose I should head in. See what this is all about.”

“Thank you,” he breathed out. “Really, Geralt. Thank you-”

He only gave him a strange look. One he couldn’t quite comprehend. “I owe you, Roche,” he said. “For Kaer Morhen. For Ciri. Consider this to be me repaying it.”

He closed his mouth. He really didn’t want to remember that night - the nightmares of the Wild Hunt nearly killing Ves were too real for his liking - and truthfully, he almost forgot Geralt had promised he’d be in his debt. That he would willingly help. But it shouldn’t be like this.

Something felt perverse in the way he said it.

Like he was tying his hands behind his back.

Despite what he was - which most of the time was a fucking bastard - he wasn’t one to use his allies in such a way. Of course he manipulated people, it had been his job, but Geralt was different. He wasn’t some prick with a sword who would swing on command. Hell, he had witnessed his loyalty to his mentor and his daughter clearly at Kaer Morhen. He was more than a figure to be pushed on a board.

And the way he gazed at him, he knew that was what he was feeling. That he was _using_ him.

As if he was that pathetic of a person.

“Geralt-” he said, making the Witcher stop, his eyes honing in on him, expanding slightly in the low light, studying him hard. He swallowed without thinking. Gods, sometimes he forgot Geralt was technically non-human. “Don’t… Don’t do this because you owe me.”

“Why else would I do it?” he said.

Fair point.

“I meant,” he sighed, his gut beginning to churn again, his ears burning in shame. “I mean, don’t do something you’re not comfortable with just because you owe me. I’m sure there’s something else I could find for you to pay me back. Or Ves, for that matter. She’s bound to have something.”

It was supposed to be a light riff, yet the way Geralt turned to look at him, it made him frown deeply. Like he had said the wrong thing.

“Geralt?”

The Witcher’s mouth twitched. Slightly. He wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t staring at him so intently, but he caught the movement. As if Geralt was dissatisfied with something.

No, with _him_. Gods, he should be used to that by now.

“Geralt?” He asked again, almost tempted to call him by his title.

He only sighed, his strange look still plain on his face. “Vernon, tell me something. If I walked away right now, what would you do?”

It was his turn to let his mouth twitch. “If you think I’m going to force you-”

“I mean, what would you do about Radovid? You clearly intend to see him die.”

Oh.

Without thinking, he reached up to rub at his neck, his mindset growing grim as he thought it over.

“I’d go kill him myself.”

Geralt scowled at his response. “He’s surrounded by guards.”

“And I’m not an amateur, you know,” he said. “If you didn’t help me at Loc Muinne, I would have stormed the Kaedweni encampment myself.”

“And died,” he said, deadpanned. Why it made him scowl, he couldn’t tell. Maybe because out of everyone, Geralt underestimating him in such a way felt like more of an insult than anything Dijkstra said.

“Please,” he almost growled. “I’m not-”

“That easy to kill, I know, Roche,” he finished his sentence. “Except you are incredibly reckless. And I don’t think you understand how guarded Radovid is.”

“I am very aware,” he said, not enjoying where the conversation was going. It made him cross his arms, his face burning in embarrassment at how Geralt was treating him. As if he was some mindless twit that couldn’t tell his ass end from his face. “I’m not an idiot, Geralt. I’ve watched him for weeks now, studied his patterns, taken note of his men. But this is something I must do. You can decide on your path, Witcher, but I am set on mine. Radovid must die so Temeria can live. That’s all that matters to me.”

Geralt let out a low, annoyed sigh. Like he was disappointed in him. “You’re going to get killed, Roche.”

He was right - of course he was - but did it matter? Did he really want his country to be lost because he was being a coward? Or to have it saved by abusing his trust with an ally as invaluable as Geralt? No, he knew his capabilities and how far he could be tested. With Radovid, he would surely be at the limit and he was probably only going to have one shot to take the bastard down. But if he caught a bolt in the neck while Radovid got one through the eye, it would be a death worth having.

Thaler and Ves could take it from there.

“If I do, so be it,” he quietly said, ignoring the prickling finger at the back of his neck and the nauseous feeling in his gut. Temeria had to survive, with or without him. Their assassination was for that reason - it was never about him or any guarantee he would live. “I was trained for this, after all.”

“For suicide?” Geralt cut in. His jaw twitched in annoyance at the word.

“To honor my country and King. If that requires my blood to flow, then I’ll gladly let it,” he said, turning to face him, his eyes hard. Only Geralt was staring at him with a melancholy expression. As if he was someone to be pitied. Why it set him off, he couldn’t tell, but he found himself snapping before he could properly think. “Why do you even care, Geralt?”

For a second, he merely blinked. It quickly morphed to him shaking his head, condemning him as a fool.

_As if he didn’t know he was one._

“Because I don’t want you to die,” he said plainly.

He exhaled a short breath through his teeth at the words, not satisfied with the reply. “Let me ask you something, Witcher. You’d do anything for your daughter, right?”

Immediately, his eyes contracted, focusing on him hard, offended he even asked.

“Yes, well,” Roche muttered, ignoring the hairs that stood up on the back of his neck at the change. “I don’t think I have to go into details on your feelings for such things. But know that the tightness in your gut is what I feel for my country. What I will always feel. And I don’t give a damn if my death means she can be free.”

“Roche,” Geralt interrupted him. “Ciri is living. Temeria isn’t.”

It was his turn to take offense, his shoulders growing tense as he glared at him. He just didn’t get it. No, no one ever did. “Temeria breathes just like any other living thing. Her trees, her soil, her hills; The wind is her voice and the people her blood. My heart beats with her soul. Something I take pride in. So I owe it to her to see her either rise again, or let my body return to her in pieces.”

Geralt nearly cringed at his words. “You’re that willing to die for a swath of land?”

He had to inhale to keep himself from punching him, to calm his rage, but it accumulated into a single word, one that he struggling to say calmly.

“Yes.”

The whoreson shook his head slightly. Dumbfounded.

It made him burn.

Perhaps he had been too premature to trust the Witcher, and his shame spread over his face, making his ears and cheeks hot, his tongue growing dry in his mouth. Like he should be ashamed for loving his country that much. “Whatever,” he quietly said, done with the conversation. He was finished with trying to convince others. Fuck the plans. He’d figure a way to kill Radovid. “I didn’t expect you to understand.”

“Roche,” Geralt sighed, his eyes locking on him, but he refused to meet them, his mood already growing bitter. “You’re right. I don’t understand. But I’m going to repeat myself.”

“What, that it’s suicide? I don’t car-”

“I don’t want you to die.”

The five simple words cut him off, stilling his breath, and he felt his heart throb for a second. Before he could react - no, even think - he found his personal space suddenly invaded, the Witcher nearly against him, forcing his eyes to fix with his, his back stiffening as a reaction to the closeness.

Yet, he didn’t draw away, even when his breath mingled with his. Hot and smelling of iron and sinew. It made his cheeks flush a deep red, but not out of shame or embarrassment. It was definitely something else. Bloody hell, it was Loc Muinne all over again. Only this time, he swore he could see Geralt’s jaw tightening. _Fighting not to close the gap between them._

He subconsciously licked his lips, a motion Geralt watched.

He couldn’t back down.

“I’m not going to die,” he said quietly. 

“I want to believe that,” Geralt muttered. “Only I know you, Roche.”

He gave him a slight sneer. “I survived the Nilfgaardians at Yaruga, La Valette, Scoia’tael raids, and the dragon attack. I think I can make it out of this just fine.”

“Radovid has doubled his guard. He has archers and knights with him,” Geralt said, his eyes flicking to his mouth again. It prompted him to subconsciously lick them, his saliva growing thick. “Trained better than what you and I are used to.”

“I’ll find my way around them.”

“You won’t, Roche,” Geralt stressed. “And Radovid won’t let you die so easily. He will catch you and torture you.”

It was his turn to inhale, his head lifting slightly; Arrogantly. “I can survive whatever torture he throws at me.”

The Witcher shook his head - In disgust? Horror? Whatever it was, it made him nearly fume with how he was disregarding his past. He _could_ survive Radovid’s torture. Otherwise he would have been a real shitty interrogator. “He blinded Philippa. Wants to make Triss suffer. Has peeled the flesh off of his own advisers. He’ll do worse to you.”

“I’m not a mage,” he countered.

“But you’re trying to kill him,” Geralt furrowed his brows at him, scolding him internally. “And you’re Temerian. You were supposed to be loyal to him, and now you want him dead. Do you really think he’ll take that lightly?”

Of course not. He wasn’t stupid, but the argument was starting to invoke a part of him that hated to be wrong. That had to fight with sarcasm and annoyance. It didn’t matter if he was tortured - If he’d even allow himself to get to that point. He was a soldier; a former interrogator. A Commander. If he feared the consequences, then what was the point? Why even call himself a Blue Stripe?

“Whatever he throws at me, I’ll survive.”

His answer didn’t satisfy the Witcher. “Listen, Roche. Radovid is dangerous. Whatever you think he will do, it will be worse than what you can conceive.”

“I am very familiar with torture practices,” he reminded him.

“And I am telling you it’s not that simple. You aren’t giving Radovid any credit to his cruelty.”

“Geralt-” He tried to dismiss him, but he was cut off as Geralt leaned in, his breath too close and his eyes searching him hard. Like he was trying to see into his soul.

“I had to listen to them torture Triss for a time. Hear her screaming in the room next to me while I sat there in front of a lunatic. One Radovid personally admired. The Witch Hunters do not show mercy, Roche, and they will take pleasure in dragging out every horrible thing they can before their King comes. Then once he does-” He deliberately paused, his mouth pressing into a thin line for a second. As if he didn’t even want to utter the words. “-I doubt even your thumb would be left in tact.”

He knew the words were meant to turn him off. To make him reconsider. Perhaps gain some knowledge in his sadly empty skull, but all they did was incense him.

“Let me ask you something, Geralt,” he said, leaning forward, their noses nearly touching as the air between them grew thick. “Can you name the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?”

The Witcher studied him. Hard.

“Can you?”

“No,” he said, the tension beginning to grow palatable. “But I guess you’re going to tell me.”

Damn right he was.

“Six months ago,” he began, his voice slow and quiet, almost akin to a whisper. “My King died in a building that was a stone’s throw away from me. One I couldn’t reach because I fell under the wings of a dragon.” Geralt only inhaled slightly, sucking away the last breathable air between them. “The worst thing in my life has already happened. Foltest is dead, and my country is swarmed by invaders, with no one willing to help. I don’t give a damn what happens now.”

“Roche-”

He didn’t want to hear it. “I’m prepared to die for Temeria. To do what I couldn’t at the front lines. I will make this right, and I will bring my country back, and I no longer give a _fuck_ if I have to have my eyes pulled out, my tongue cut, and my guts ripped from my body to do it. Because I’ve already experienced something that hurt more than death. That will never stop haunting me. Anything that happens at this point, I couldn’t give a shit about.” He licked his lips. One last time. “Temeria is the only thing that matters. Not me.”

“Roche,” Geralt said, his voice thick.

“ _What?_ ”

“Do you think that’s what Foltest wants?”

He went rigid at the name of his king. No, at the way Geralt said it. For some reason, it hurt, like the Witcher had just punched him. 

And the prick kept speaking. “For you to throw your life away? For you to shame yourself by committing a cowardly form of suicide?”

“Watch it, Geralt.”

His eyes seemed to expand, drilling into his own. “I doubt your former King wants you to act like an ass just because another monarch lives. Think for a second. You’re smarter than this.”

He inched forward and he nearly felt his lips on his own. 

“The Vernon Roche I know wouldn’t throw away his life so easily.”

No, he was wrong. He-?

He…?

Suddenly, everything felt too close. Too claustrophobic. Geralt was too much of a presence, the air was disgustingly salty, and his hands were nearly shaking with adrenaline and discomfort. He was so bloody close to his ally that he was inhaling his breaths, taking them in as his own. It immediately prompted him to step back, breaking the space between them, his eyes casting away, and he drew in a sharp breath. One that burned as it entered his lungs. Geralt only blinked, like he was snapping out of the spell he had been under. As if he just figured out how close the two of them had been.

This was getting too intimate. Something he _hated_.

“Roche-”

“Geralt,” he interrupted on purpose, only he heard the tremble in his own voice. 

_Emhyr had told him what to do. He had no excuse not to obey._

“Geralt,” he tried again, his thoughts muddling in his head. Bloody hell, it was like his head had fallen off and his brain had popped out. Which wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed. “Foltest knows what I pledged. This isn’t throwing my life away. I know what I’m doing.” Even if it didn’t feel like he did. “Like I said, you don’t have to do this, we’ll find a way. Your favor can transfer to Ves. But don’t make it sound like I’m making a poor choice.”

“Roche,” Geralt said, his voice a little more forceful. He ignored it.

“I’m going back,” he muttered. “Whatever you choose, Witcher, I wish you well on the Path.”

“Roche, you idiot,” he heard him sigh.

Whatever. “Dijkstra and Thaler are waiting,” he muttered. Like either of them cared, but it needed to be said. “I have to get back.”

Without warning or a prompt, he felt a pressure on his wrist. Warm, yet demanding, and before he could snap something in protest or even comprehend that the Witcher had snapped up his hand, Geralt was against him.

His mouth hit his own.

For a second, he went blank. His body stiffened, as if he was a piece of wood, the signals in his mind exploding, trying to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t until the Witcher pulled back that he realized, and he let his tongue run over his lower lip.

Geralt only stared at him, judging, trying to obviously figure out if he crossed a line.

He did. Well, of course he did. Never before did he have another person just throw themselves at him in such a way. Only his mind was still fumbling and screeching over what had happened, struggling to process it. Like a ball of wool that a cat had gotten its claws in.

Geralt kissed him.

He tasted like a type of odd meat. Gods, was that sanitary?

_Geralt_ kissed him.

Didn’t he want this back at Loc Muinne? Why was his heart pounding so fast? Dijkstra and Thaler were waiting.

_Kiss him back!_

Did anyone see?

“Roche?” Geralt said, and the thoughts jumbled more, making him blink stupidly, unable to answer. He stepped back, out of his space, and he was left feeling awkward. No, shaken. “Are you alright?”

He licked his lips again.

_Geralt kissed him._

Wait, wasn’t he with Triss? Or Yen? Or…? What was going on?

“Uh…” he responded. Fucking brilliant. “I don’t… I don’t understand..?” The Witcher stared at him, like he was the emotionally repressed idiot, and it left him frowning. No. Wrong. It left him with one question. “Why?” he blurted out. Geralt only blinked.

“Roche,” he said carefully. “I care about you.”

He was again rendered speechless; Stupid. “Care about me how?”

The poor Witcher tilted his head, staring at him. 

_Fuck, he never claimed to be smart._

“You know what? Nevermind,” Geralt finally said, moving to rub at his neck, clearly put off by the whole thing. “Forget it.”

Surely, he was joking.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the main street. “Dijkstra’s waiting. And I know he hates doing that, so we should hurry up.”

Again, he only frowned, not comprehending things that well. But one singular thought kept hissing in his mind. One that had plagued him silently since Flotsam, when he had witnessed the Witcher step out of the elven baths after his rendezvous with Triss. Where his body had been drenched from the waters and his skin unnaturally smooth. 

He had been given a chance, just like he had with Radovid. Only this one was more ludicrous; forbidden. And his window of opportunity was closing, each second that ticked by a ringing bell in his head. Either he make the shot. Or lose it. 

Forever.

His body reacted first. Just as Geralt had done, he spared no time in making conversation or courtship. All that mattered was the physical movements, and he grabbed his collar, pulling him back to him, the Witcher’s boots scraping the uneven rocks under their feet.

“Roche-?”

He crushed his mouth against Geralt’s, taking control, showing him who was in power between them. He forced his mouth open, his tongue pressing over his teeth until he took the hint. He opened his mouth and the slick, wet sounds of them kissing properly - no, feverishly - hit both their ears. Only Roche didn’t feel him shudder like he accidentally did. Nor did he moan when he was forced back, like he did, his body submitting to Geralt’s intimidating pressure.

Though, he was the one to break it, the pant that came from him more for lack of air than need, and the damned Witcher only breathed. He could see an edge forming between them - a rough one - but he didn’t press it. Instead, he turned his focus on the feelings rattling in his gut. Ones he needed to get out.

He’d been holding it in for six months after all.

“If you want to stop me from taking Radovid’s head, fine,” he said, watching Geralt’s eyes, how they were expanding to focus on him in the shaded light of the alley, their breaths tangling. “But you’ll have to do more than kiss me, Witcher.”

He raised a brow. “Want to elaborate on that?”

“No,” he said, and he purposely pulled away, shooting him a hard look before he let his tongue linger on his swelling bottom lip. It still was tingling from the harsh motion he had been subjected to. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Not without me.”

He let out a scoff, but he could already feel his heart pounding a mile a minute in his throat, his legs trembling slightly as he walked out of the alley. Like nothing had happened. After all, he had a bloody assassination to plan. Even if what had transpired had interested him more than what was to come.

Without a word, Geralt trailed behind him, giving him one last look before stared ahead, both of them making their way to the warehouse door, each of them reeling with the new prospect they had. Roche pushed in first, not bothering to hold the door open after, and he was met with numerous eyes attacking his form until they shifted when the door clattered again.

He said nothing - didn’t even bother to introduce him. After all, for all that was concerned, they had just quietly entered together, maybe with a single word spoken between them. None of them could suspect what had happened, nor was he willing to bare the information willingly.

Dijkstra looked down from his perch, his damned egg-shaped form standing firm on the second floor, pompous; Bloated. Thaler was taking a drink - though it didn’t look like it was one of victory. Seemed as though their little card game had ended in the time it took him to get a proper ‘breath of air’.

How ironic.

“Geralt,” Dijkstra called, and the mood once again turned tense. He was who they had been waiting for, and Roche merely took to the steps, leaving him behind. The Witcher stood motionless for a moment before he let out a sigh.

“Dijkstra.”

The bastard smiled. “I see you found Roche,” he nodded. His damned response didn’t get a reaction from him, but it didn’t matter. Prick was smirking like he knew something they didn’t. Geralt only nodded in response, moving to take the stairs while he settled against the map. As if nothing happened.

As if he wasn’t purposely licking his bottom lip again to taste Geralt’s strange skin.

Dijkstra smiled, his arms spreading out, as if he was a damned owl. He was making a show of this. Meaning for once, the bastard was pleased. “Welcome to the last night of Radovid’s life,” he plainly stated. “Have you come to see him off?”

There was a silence. Tense. Geralt moved to look at Roche, and he only breathed.

“Let’s do this.”

Just like that, everything changed.


	3. Verbana and Allspice (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started April 20th, 2018.

It wasn’t like it was the first time they had done such a thing, but considering the time length, it might as well had been. He had to admit he was rusty at making snippy comments or provocative teasing, but thank the gods Geralt didn’t care - though he did raise a brow at him, suggesting he may have been amused by his stupidity. Whatever. All that mattered was he was that they were both willing and they finished before Dijkstra came back. Though he quietly suspected the bastard leaving on ‘urgent business’ was a lie.

Didn’t matter. 

As soon as his stomach hit the bed, the scent of perfume-ladden sheets making him hiss, Geralt was straddling his thighs, his foot kicking his bare legs apart. He obeyed the silent command, his chaperon slipping off as he moved to get comfortable amongst the embroidered pillows and bunched up quilts, and he shuddered as Geralt wasted no time in popping the cork off the vial of oil.

A quick glance back got him the glimpse of how slick the Witcher’s hand was becoming, his fingers shining even in the low light, and he moved to bite into one of the pillows. Yes, they were in a brothel, meaning he could be as loud as he wanted, considering the other patrons were, well, making a ruckus below. But it was an ingrained habit for him to be silent. After all, his days pleasuring his king before he had been murdered taught him enough that there was a time and place to be loud. A strange bed hidden in the room of a whorehouse was not one of them.

For one thing, he was supposed to be plotting an assassination. Not getting his ass fucked.

“Roche,” Geralt said, distracting him for a second. “Are you ready?”

Bloody hell. “Just hurry up, Witcher,” he snapped back. His curt response got him a slap to the ass and he nearly yelped, his hips jerking into the bed in shock. He swore the prick chuckled at that. “W-Whoreson!”

“If you say so.” The tips of his wet, dripping fingers began spreading him, leaving a visible trail to where they were aiming before he started prodding at his entrance, not wasting any time. Gods, he knew he needed to relax, but the one thing he could never get used to was how bloody cold dwarven oil could be, even when applied to something warm. He shifted, finding a corner of the pillow to bite into, and he forced himself to remained calm, even as his ass started to throb from the slap. Prick.

Geralt began pushing into him - two fingers to start - and he tried damn hard not to groan. He would have preferred a little light teasing, but then again, he was used to it being rough.

“You’re rather eager today,” Geralt muttered and he growled at him, not bothering to look back.

“I don’t just wait around for you to come plough me,” he said, briefly letting go of the pillow to banter with him.

“Hm, but you said it had been a while.”

“Since I did this with another person,” he hissed, hating how he was starting to flush, his head growing light as Geralt’s fingers slid deeper into his body.

“So you do this by yourself?” Geralt asked, pausing when his fingers were fully sheathed inside before they began to twist and curl, searching for that spot that always made him lose it, the sensation maddening. He could already feel the muscles in his thigh tense, his cock twitching against his stomach.

“W-What, would you prefer I-I spread my legs for any whoreson that a-asks?” he stuttered like an idiot. Geralt only sighed in amusement.

“No,” he remarked. A smart answer. “Though, I would like to see that.”

“W-What?” He snapped his head to the side, glaring at him through his peripherals. Geralt only let the corner of his mouth twitch slightly, his cat eyes a little too intense for his liking. “Why-?”

“Would I want to see you get fucked silly?” Geralt said, his fingers jerking back, nearly out of his body before they quickly thrust in, the motion snapping a moan from his throat. “Call it a curiosity.”

“Prick,” he spat, but the word held no anger. How could it when his friend was finally giving him what he - No, _they_ \- needed? It had been a damn long time since either of them had fucked the other, and he knew it was one of the reasons there was an unmistakable tension between them. After all, what whoreson wouldn’t get ruffled when the person who had ploughed them to the point they could barely stand just walked into their domain six months after like it had never happened? Only he couldn’t accuse him of fucking and running in front of his men - Gods, in front of Ves - without being lynched in the process.

Thank the holy stars they were able to talk properly before he brought him to Radovid. Otherwise, he might have put a dagger between his ribs in frustration.

“Roche,” Geralt said, his hand driving into him at a good speed, making him suck on the fabric between his teeth, the slick, sloppy sounds of his fingers making his head light, forgetting his thoughts. “Can I put in another?”

He responded by moaning; Geralt thankfully understood that meant ‘yes’. He slowed down, almost slipping his fingers out of him, but he let the tips remain inside as he added his ring finger to the mix. It wasn’t difficult to fit it in - he had taken a lot more than that in his life - but of course the prick had to stretch him, seeing how far he could go, the movement making him arch his back and release the pillow.

“Geralt-!” he choked. The Witcher responded by thrusting all three in completely, forcing him to clench. “Fuck!”

“You want to fuck?” he said, deadpanned. Gods, he was such a ploughing prick.

“I’m going to kill you after this!”

“Mmhmm.”

_Asshole._

Only, once again, his anger was placated as Geralt started thrusting into him, his stroking enough to make him fall back to bite the pillow as his thighs started to shake in tune. It wasn’t something he would call violent, but Geralt was a lot more powerful than he probably knew, and he was forced to spread his legs wider, his left curling up just so that it didn’t feel like his entire arm was fucking his ass. The bed was starting to creak under him as he bit his pillow and he closed his eyes tight as he focused on the sensation. How the dwarven oil was making him slick and hot, how easily Geralt’s fingers were sliding in and out of him, the sucking noises they made horrifically lewd and turning him on. 

His fingers were long and calloused, both rough and smooth at the same time, and he groaned deeply into the embroidered fabric, not realizing how much he had _missed_ the Witcher. He had let others have him in the six months - Why wouldn’t he? He was actually convinced he’d never see Geralt again - but it was never like this. It wasn’t like the wooden toy he used either, though he enjoyed that in a different capacity. Mostly because of how it stretched his stomach and left him sore.

Except Geralt gave him the same feelings. Well, minus the stomach thing; He wasn’t _that_ large. But he couldn’t deny the churning in his gut, or the flush that was covering his face from how easily he could take him. How much he hoped this was turning him on as much as it was him and the surge inside him that wanted to just throw the Witcher down and fuck him until they both couldn’t get up.

It had been way too long since they last saw one another. Way too long since he had willingly _given in_.

“Fuck, Geralt-” he whined, his hips starting to thrust back, his cock smearing precome against his stomach and the sheets. “Fuck, I want you,” he hissed, tugging hard on the corner of his pillow. “Fuck, I want you!”

Teeth scraped his shoulder before it turned into a sharp kiss, one that moved to assault his neck and coat it with hot saliva, the Witcher’s stubble tickling his skin. He groaned and let him do as he wished. What did he care if the Witcher bit him? Let him mark his skin. Not like it would be the first bloody time between them - or hopefully the last.

He was rewarded with a harsh, swift bite against the crook of his neck, one that made him howl with pleasure and his body clench around the fingers fucking his eager ass. He swore he heard Geralt chuckle again, but he honestly couldn’t be sure.

“Want me inside of you?” Geralt asked, still in that monotone voice. Why it made him buck with need, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been teased like this in a while. Or maybe it was nice to hear that _one_ of them was in control.

“Yes,” he panted.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Geralt hissed into his ear, and gods, he arched his back at the tone. “As if you’re some whore?”

Well, they were in a whorehouse. Only he found he didn’t really want to make a sarcastic comment, he just needed Geralt _dominating_ him.

“Ye-e-es,” he moaned, dragging the word out. Geralt pulled his fingers out, moving to slap his ass again, like he approved of his response, and the sharpness sent a shudder up his spine. Gods, he bloody well _needed_ his cock inside of him, otherwise he was going to snap.

It had been _too long_.

His hips were grabbed and he was roughly yanked into position, his knees sliding on the sheets awkwardly, like he was a newborn calf trying to get up for the first time. Geralt forced his hips up with a single hand, his other pushing his shoulders down, indicating he was to keep his face buried in the pillows and quilt, and he trembled in anticipation, his fingers twisting blankets for a steady grip. He heard him fumble with his clothes, the sound of a belt being unclipped making him lick his lips as he waited, and it didn’t surprise him when he felt the Witcher’s cock slap his rear.

Without even seeing it, he knew he was as fucking hard as he was, and he let his hips sway a bit, enticing him.

It got him a slap, one that made him nearly bark in shock.

“Just fuck me, Geralt,” he complained. The position wasn’t exactly _comfortable_ , especially with his ass now throbbing, but his whining wasn’t addressed, nor did the Witcher say anything else. He merely moved to sliding his cock between his reddening cheeks, teasing him with what he wanted to do, his damned tip nearly slipping in once before he pulled back, and he nearly growled in agony. “Geralt-!”

There was the sound of him spitting, then a wet, slippery noise before he finally angled himself right, his tip in position. He only waited, his breath shaking with anticipation, his cock dripping with precome. Fuck, he needed him.

After a second, Geralt started, pressing into him, the tip of his cock slipping in without resistance, and Roche let out a low, thankful moan. Gods, he was just as thick as he remembered, and he struggled not to buck back. He wasn’t in control; This was all Geralt. This was like Loc Muinne all over again, where he just needed to savour the feeling.

The Witcher finally let out a strained breath, indicating that he probably was recalling the same memory as him, his cock throbbing inside himself, before he grabbed at his hips. He tugged them closer together; A Perfect fit. “Vernon,” he sighed. He flushed at the sound of his name. “You’re tighter than I remember.”

He took it as a compliment. “Wolf,” he said. “Fuck me.”

“With pleasure.”

With that, he withdrew, his length sliding out of him, slow and calm. Though he knew what was coming. Gentle wasn’t how they did things. That had just been a moment where they were remembering just what the other felt like.

As he predicted, Geralt dug his nails into his flesh and snapped his hips forward, driving himself into him at a force that took his breath away. Instantly, he fisted the sheets, trying to get a grip as Geralt roughly started fucking him, the sounds of their skin slapping together increasing with every thrust. Oh, _fuck_ , but he bloody well needed it. That feeling of being dominated - used - filling his head with indecent thoughts and motions. How the summit of Loc Muinne came to mind, how Geralt had fucked him in the ruins, the remembrance of his knees burning on the stone, his moans echoing around them, the mess they left behind. The _kiss_ they had shared. 

He dug his feet into the bed, trying to thrust back with him, but he couldn’t keep up. Geralt, it seemed, had accumulated a healthy amount of stamina since their last time. All he could do was enjoy the ‘ride’, so to speak, and he bit into the sheets below them, the threads swallowing his indecent cries. Gods, but it felt so good to be ploughed by him again. To have the Witcher’s cock messing up his insides, his flesh hot and stretching him just right. He eagerly jerked back when he could, loving the sounds of Geralt breathing in sharply above him, his cock bouncing between his legs before Geralt pushed him down again. Dominating.

Overpowering him.

Oh, fuck, he let out a horrid moan in appreciation for it. Because it was only ever Geralt that could make him love being so _submissive_.

Though, the thought of how he was going to finish briefly came to mind, and he groaned, trying to remember the previous time. The Witcher had pulled out at the last second, something he still was rather annoyed about. If he was going to fuck him like a bull in the height of breeding season, he wanted it done right. They might as well go all out.

“G-Geralt,” he panted, struggling to even get a word out as the prick mounted him in a proper position, his hands moving to press his shoulders into the bed. Gods, it was like having a griffin on his back. “Geralt, c-come inside me t-this time!”

He didn’t slow down, but he felt him angle a bit different, driving into him harshly, like his request had taken him off guard.

“I mean it!” Roche snarled, though it quickly morphed into a needy moan when he felt him graze against _that_ spot. The one that made him crazy.

Prick didn’t respond. He merely kept thrusting, pinning him to the bed, his nails digging into his skin, pulling it harshly enough that he felt himself almost bleed. After a moment, he forgot about it. Because Geralt angled them enough for him to hit _it_. And he lost any shred of dignity and control he had.

He wasn’t a vocal lover, but when pressed - or bloody forced - it just came out. Long, continuous moans that made him sound like a female whore being ploughed by two men. Didn’t help that Geralt had moved to flattening them both to the bed, his chest pushing him down, confining him under his body as he ploughed him, making the tension in his gut become unbearable. The tip of his cock kept dragging over the sensitive nerves inside him, pushing against it when he angled, each time nearly causing him to explode, but he pulled back just enough to make him howl in agony.

“Geralt!” he yelled, his frustration growing, his cock aching, his frame unable to properly move due to the fact that the damned Witcher was stronger than him. It left him whining and bucking frantically, his head becoming light as he chased the high that was starting to tease his tongue, the scent of their sex - musky and hot - driving him mad, Geralt’s hips almost bruising his backside with how forceful he was being. It was like he had an animal on top of him, one that was determined to make him remember why nothing ever bloody satisfied him in the time they had been apart. Why he started using a toy on himself during the night, wanting to get that feeling back.

Where he had no control over the pleasure driving through him.

_Fuck_. He ripped at the sheets, unable to stop.

It lasted shorter than he wanted, the pressure of Geralt fucking him with fast, consistent strokes, but of course the Witcher had something planned. Where he started thrusting into him hard, slamming into him fully so he felt the base of his shaft, catching him off guard. It was enough that it took his breath away. Where he actually choked for breath.

Geralt didn’t notice, his hips grinding into him, his cock practically stabbing his insides, hitting him _right_ before he repeated the pattern of thrusting in hard, and he forgot himself for a second. That he was supposed to be quiet, or at least, not so bloody loud. That as a Commander of Temeria’s Last Hope, howling like a _bitch_ in a brothel wasn’t bloody dignified. But Geralt did it again. And fucking again. He nearly torn through the sheets under them.

He didn’t care that he suddenly came all over the quilt and his stomach, unable to stop. That he tensed around Geralt’s damned cock, nearly thrashing, a long, embarrassing cry escaping his lips as he fell into the blankets below. He couldn’t think as Geralt kept thrusting into him, his body shaking in the aftermath and from the force, his head growing fuzzy, breath short, before he heard the groan from above. One that he knew from before.

Geralt was at his limit. He tried to buck back, but he could barely move. Like he had been sapped of energy.

Three quick thrusts - near painful for him - was all it took, and he felt something rush inside; Thick and warm. Seemed the Witcher had complied with his request.

Gods, he could feel it spill out of his body as Geralt thrust down again. _The Witcher’s come._

“Roche,” Geralt groaned against his ear, ignoring the shudder that wracked him for a moment. “You alright?”

“Get off me,” he muttered. Not because he was angry, or disgusted, or anything stupid like that, but he could feel his legs growing numb, his chest rather constricted in his position. Geralt pulled out - fuck, he felt like he had taken a pole up his arse - and he slowly tried to roll over, the muscles in his thighs shaking as he did.

That’s when he felt it. His sore ass throbbed when he put pressure on it. Gods dammit.

Geralt merely studied him, like a panther admiring its kill, and he groaned, reaching to grab his discarded chaperon to pull on, his hands red from how tightly they had been gripping the sheets. He tried to sit up - tried being the keyword, especially when he felt more of Geralt’s seed dripping from his ass - and the Witcher moved to help him stand, finally getting it through his dense head that he may have been a little too rough.

Not that either of them would admit it. Again, they didn’t do gentle. He wasn’t a bloody glass maiden that needed to be handled with care.

Except he cringed when he finally stood on two feet, ignoring how abused his hole felt and the fact that his chest had imprints of the embroidered quilt and pillow lingering on it. “Did you really have to slap my ass that hard?” he muttered.

Geralt shrugged. Prick. “Last time I did that, you said you loved it.” Shit, he had forgotten about that. “Is it really that bad?”

He huffed. “No,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I’m just… saying.”

Geralt raised a brow, as if he wanted to poke fun at how much of a child he was being, but once he waved him off, moving to tug on his shirt, the Witcher dropped it. He quietly began dressed himself, his thin blue armor fitting tightly over his chest, and Roche took a moment to steal a look as he adjusted his sleeves. He had to admit, it looked nice. Especially with how it emphasized Geralt’s waist.

It took him more than a minute to pull his trousers on, his throat growling at the feeling of come and sweat mixing between his legs, but he wasn’t in the mood to bathe. One quick wipe with the edge of the bedsheets was all he needed before he grabbed his chainmail, his belts loose on his hips. It would probably be a bit of time before he tightened them.

“Roche,” Geralt suddenly said, making him pause. “Thanks.”

He tried not to flush too deeply at his words. “Y… Yeah.” He didn’t want to make it awkward, but then again, he had never been good at this type of thing. He was used to pretending things had never happened. After all, most men he knew had others; Designated lovers or wives or children who didn’t need to know what dear daddy did in the woods. Not that it bothered him, but he didn’t enjoy the thought of sticking around to make excuses on why things wouldn’t work. He heard it enough, and he had gotten it after Radovid had razed Loc Muinne to the ground.

Only this time, Triss wasn’t waiting for them.

Fuck it, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t some lovesick idiot hoping for a ring or whatever peasants did. He tugged on his gambeson, tying the strings tight, making sure it didn’t look like he had just been ploughed by the Witcher, before he focused his thoughts. “Dijkstra will be back soon,” he said, trying to clear the strange air between them. “You should probably head off. I’ll tell him you went to talk to Gregor. Should keep the bastard off your back.”

“Vernon.”

His mouth twitched at his name. “What?”

A hand pressed against his back, sliding to pull at his waist, making him stiffen, and Geralt forced him to turn, to face him, his damned cat eyes drilling holes into him that made him flush. He said nothing, his eyes fixated, before he moved forward.

He forced his mouth open with his own.

_Kissing_ him.

Not that he would have protested, but he had to admit, it took him off guard. The kiss was short - almost pointless - until Geralt pressed again. This time, determined to deepen it, his tongue moving over his making a sick, wet sound. He didn’t mean to moan, but the prick knew what he was doing. In two short kisses, he had made him pant. The third, he groaned deeply, growing submissive. Geralt knew how to bloody bring a person to their knees, and he hated that he was no different. That he almost whimpered when he pulled back.

“Geralt,” he breathed, trying to shove him off, but again the Witcher was a lot stronger than he was. More solid in build and muscle. “My ass is already sore.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, his tongue sliding into his mouth again, ignoring how his nails dug into his forearms.

“I mean it,” he snapped, trying to pull away. Didn’t work. He was dragged into another kiss, his body growing hot again. “I can’t…” Fuck, he was stealing his breath. “…Go twice…” Oh, fuck, he was getting hard from how Geralt was controlling him. “In-In a day.”

Bastard finally let him breathe. “Hm.”

“I mean it,” he said, trying to be intimidating, but it was bloody hard when he was pressing into the Witcher’s thigh for some relief. “I can’t-”

“Vernon,” he said again, moving to nip at his jaw, his tongue ghosting up to his ear to pull, cutting off his protests. “ _I missed you._ ”

He went silent; But his heart throbbed.

“I’m staying at the Rosemary and Thyme,” Geralt muttered into his ear. “We can see there if you can only come once a day.”

_Fuck._

“Geralt-”

One last kiss. One hot, needy, passionate kiss that left him trembling and dizzy, the Witcher plling on his tongue for a second, emphasizing that he meant his words; Then he was gone, leaving him semi-hard and panting, his figure disappearing down the stairs. It left him desperate - no, on edge. Throbbing. Confused. _Aroused._

Something Dijkstra immediately picked up on when he finally came back, a bottle of rye in his hand, his damned beady eyes looking him over like he had found him with his hand in his coin purse.

“So?” he said. Like he fucking knew what had gone on. “Where’s Geralt?”

He swallowed his desire.

“Gone to find Thaler.”

“Ah. Good lad,” Dijkstra said, moving to set the bottle down, giving him a strange look. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He stared at him, his mouth pressing thin, his heart still thumping in his chest before he decided to answer.

“I would.”

Dijkstra only smirked before he poured them a drink.

“Then let’s drink,” he said. “To Geralt.”

… _To Geralt._

Roche only breathed.


	4. Mandrake and Ergot (Geralt/Roche - Dubcon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started May 13th, 2018.
> 
> Dubious consent.

He didn’t know why there was always an underlying tension between them, one he could physically feel even a day after he departed from Roche’s presence. There was something about the Commander that clashed with a personal side of him he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with - one that even Yennefer didn’t irk as bad. As if there was something they needed to say to one another, but their pride prevented them from breeching the subject. A sort of emotional conflict neither of them understood and were too stupid to try to begin to figure out. Or maybe he was too old for this shit.

_Or too stunted to function properly._

That was how it led to their meetings growing increasingly violent, though not in the way one would suspect. It began before Loc Muinne, when he had casually mentioned to the brooding Commander how he opposed his killing of Henselt. A simple statement that many of them shared, and he merely wished to express it before the summit. Only Roche, of course, flew into a rage and even tried to challenge him, which quickly ended with him on the floor, helpless. He recalled the struggle after, how Vernon just wouldn’t _give up_ , the bloody insults he had flung, an accusation folded into it that was meant to start a war, and it caused him to do the unthinkable. Something in him snapped at the implication that he was the cause of Yennefer’s problems and he found himself pinning the bastard to the boards and ripping down his trousers, hitting him so hard on his backside and thighs he drew blood. And a cry from Roche.

The air between them in that second had grown still and thick. He could still recall the feeling of Vernon’s heart beating after that initial act - a blatant crossing of an invisible line - along with the scent of blood. Then Roche had gone slack; Submissive.

Things didn’t improve from there.

It was almost as if he was drugging himself every other time he came in contact with Roche, former Blue Stripes Commander and bitch to the King of Temeria. Where he had to break the uncomfortable air between them by acting out, constantly testing how far Vernon could be pushed. Which, not surprisingly, turned out to be a lot. Sometimes it was through a matter of words, his tone often growing biting until he could see Roche’s face flush in anger. Other times it was physical, both growing increasingly frustrated until he knocked the Commander to the ground and marred his skin. He didn’t hate him, but the annoyance in his gut every time Roche had tried to order him around was enough for his hands to form into fists. Yet, when Roche was down, the same thing would happen.

He would relent, almost willingly. It unsettled him, to be frank, until he couldn’t take it anymore. Vernon Roche was a dangerous man, but if he wanted to be broken, so be it.

The first time he had forced his cock down his throat it had been six months since his escape of Loc Muinne. He meant to just talk to him along the way to see Radovid, but again, Vernon had a way of irritating him enough that it spiraled them into situations he wouldn’t dream of with anyone else. Where instead of pleasantries and maybe an apology, he was accused of helping a country collapse.

Him. _A witcher._

Needless to say, their walk to the Chess Club was more than awkward after he had thrown the Commander against a tree and, well. There was no need to go into details other than he had cracked. It ended with him forcing Roche to swallow and the whoreson obliging all too obediently. After that, he merely pretended like it didn’t happen, with Roche trailing behind, constantly giving him a look that he didn’t understand, nor want to. Yet his cock had pulsed for a day after, missing the feeling of what he had done. That Vernon hadn’t tried to bite him or resist. It planted a sick seed inside him that only worsened with the growing spring days.

After that, he made excuses to go to the Temerian Partisan camp, dragging Roche out to a cluster of trees or the nearby elven ruins so he could dominate him, each time both of them losing more of themselves. His control around him already wavered enough when Vernon actually took the initiative to suck him off first, and he kept growing more compliant with what he wanted, never raising his voice despite how many times he should have. He even almost fucked him against a boulder near the camp, close enough he could hear muffled voices, meaning the entire unit would _hear_ their Commander being violated. But he pulled himself back at the last moment, and it was the only time he had ever seen Roche shake in relief. The one time he showed reluctance with what was happening. 

It sobered him up, but not for long. Vernon Roche was a drug. One that was bitter in the mouth and not as satisfying unless taken in excess. He needed to _stop_. He had enough problems already. But again, being addicted to hazardous things was never so easy as to drop and walk away from. Especially when the other party almost seemed to light up when he came near. It culminated to a breaking point. He now felt _possessive_.

Him. A bloody witcher. But again, Roche did things to him. He messed with his head, even if the damned prick didn’t know it. Or maybe he did.

When he saw the familiar bastard crouched down in the alley in Oxenfurt, the dark twilight around them almost making him appear as a shadow, but he knew better, he caught sight of him wiping something - no, _someone_ \- from his mouth. He knew the motion. _He knew the damn motion_. Once again, he was once again thrown into impulse. Vernon Roche was his to own, no one else’s. He was his drug, his addiction, his problem, and Geralt of Rivia did not share.

He didn’t even bother to say anything as he approached, almost tempted to draw his sword, but he didn’t.

Roche looked up just in time, his lips still wet, his breathing laboured, and a flash of shock crossed his face before he settled on his knees.

“Geralt-?”

His voice sounded so damn meek and confused. It rattled his guts, and he was acting out before he could think.

Without a sound, he grabbed him by the chaperon, making sure his hair was caught in his grip, and the harsh gasp that came out of his mouth stoked something sick inside him. Something dark and forbidden, like a curse being uttered by a dying god. He forced his head back, pulling open his mouth, and he could see the remnants of semen still on his tongue. Thin and white.

He tried not to be furious, but he must have clearly shown some sign of anger because Roche closed his mouth, his lips trembling for a second.

“Geralt, I-”

He didn’t want to hear it, and without warning, he slapped him across the face. Hard. Enough that the crack echoed in the alley. Instantly, he felt guilty, his own hand stilling, his mind starting to snap awake and ask him _what the fuck was he doing?_ Roche was his bloody _ally_.

Only it disappeared at the sound of a whimpering breath. At Roche turning to look at him, licking his lips, his face flushing a deep red as the mark spread over his cheek. His eyes _changed_. They were always dark with exhaustion and disapproval, but when forced, he could see what the Commander was thinking. How his lust would cloud over his copper irises and his honesty would be as plain as blank marble slates.

His thoughts were reflected back at him, at the almost palatable desire Roche had, and he nearly forgot to breathe. _Vernon was bloody dangerous._ This was not going to end well.

“Geralt,” he moaned, his voice low, tainted with desire. Begging him to lose control. It was enough to get him bloody hard and he clenched his jaw, trying to remind himself he was being highly inappropriate. He was being completely irrational - he would never treat Yennefer or Triss like this. But Vernon Roche?

He reached for his belt.

Vernon was _different_. He was his addiction, and one that he hated.

Without asking, he shoved his thumb into the side of the Commander’s mouth, forcing his jaw open before he pulled himself free and started shoving his cock down his throat, not caring at the choking noise Roche made. He didn’t have a say in what he was doing, not when he had clearly just sucked off a stranger, and he roughly clutched the back of his head to push him more onto his prick, the hot tightness that coated him almost making him shudder.

Roche grabbed his thighs, a worrisome whimper coming out before he relaxed and slowly, he tried to obey what he wanted. Which was to let him fuck his throat; Only it wasn’t that simple. For one, he didn’t own him, no matter what he thought, and the lust Roche was displaying as if this was a game was bloody agonizing. The other thing was he was growing angry. That he had found the Commander in such a state. Roche was supposed to be his, yet he had come after, found the whoreson already filled. As if someone had come into his home and robbed him.

There had never been an agreement about sharing - or an agreement at all, if he wished to use logic - but it had been implied the line they crossed was between them and no one else. Roche was supposed to be loyal like he was to his country, only it was clear what Roche was devoted to. How many men did Roche get on his knees for? Who he pushed so he could get what he wanted? What sort of man was he?

He felt Roche swallow around him, as if trying to coax him into starting. To be rough like they both liked, but still gentle enough that it was pleasurable.

Except the prick had already gotten his fill.

_Vernon_ was already on a second meal.

He snapped his hips forward, shoving Roche against him until he was fully sheathed, and the whimper that escaped the Commander satisfying some of his anger, but not enough. Someone other than him had fucked Vernon’s mouth. Some stranger, some prick, already had used the mouth he was fucking.

_He brought this on himself._

He pulled out, enough for Roche to breathe and his cock to pop out from between his swollen lips, but he refused to let him speak. He backhanded him hard, the slap making Roche yelp, before his cock was down his throat again, cutting off his air. He had no right to punish him, but his control had cracked. He was furious, and still Vernon didn’t complain. He merely breathed through his nose and closed his eyes, _taking it_.

Gods damn the Commander. And himself for letting the slivers of emotion within him react to such things. To how his heart thumped when he saw Roche’s back arch, his fingers digging into his thighs, and how he could smell the desire between them. Vernon was leaking, he could nearly taste it in the air. Only he didn’t know if it was because of him or the aftermath of whoever he had let cum in his mouth before.

He bucked his hips without warning, the force bruising, and Roche choked, curling slightly against him, but he forced his head snugly against his length, pushing his nose above the base of his shaft, stretching his throat.

He didn’t moan.

Didn’t matter.

What was worse was it didn’t take him long to start feeling it. His cock pulsing in Roche’s slick mouth and throat, the feeling of his anger mixing with desire, his blood pulsing in his veins, struggling between filling his head with a pounding ache to his prick. Roche dutifully kept his mouth open, letting himself be used, his hair pulled, his skull angled. Even when he held him still and fucked his throat, gagging him a few times and grinding his hips against his wet lips, he remained on his knees. There was no protests, no whimpers. Only him breathing through his nose and his brows fixing in concentration.

As if he was used to the treatment. Like what he was doing wasn’t _new_.

Fuck, it incensed him more, and he shoved Roche back, forcing him to hit the brick wall behind him before his cock was slamming into his mouth, fucking his throat, abusing his body. He glanced down once and finally saw a look of pain cross Vernon’s face, his eyes glassy for a second before he shut them and trembled, forcing himself to relax.

He thrust his head up, swallowing him to the base, sucking hard. It was enough for him. _He needed to let go._

Purposely he pulled back until the tip was against Vernon’s tongue before he came, re-coating his mouth, making sure the whoreson swallowed every last drop. Roche didn’t make a sound, only obeying the silent command, and when he finally pulled away, he watched the Commander’s throat move, drinking in what he had got.

_And he looked damn good doing it._ Only he couldn’t say so. Not until he got answers.

Finally, after a minute, when his own breathing had calmed, he spoke, his voice oddly gravelly and strained. Thick with lingering anger. “Who was it?” 

Roche said nothing. He lightly kicked his thigh, forcing him to twitch as a reflex. 

“Roche, answer me.”

The prick swallowed twice before shaking his head. “…One of Radovid’s men.”

“Why?” he almost snarled, but it came out in his usual monotone voice. Devoid of emotion, despite what was burning inside him.

Roche only shrugged at his question. “I needed answers.”

“To what?”

“None of your business.”

He moved to raise his hand, but shockingly, Roche moved to glare at him, his eyes back to normal; hard and unrelenting. Daring him to do it. The tension shifted between them, no longer full of sexual desire and raw confusing emotion, but now filled with defiance and darkness. That Roche wasn’t going to be forced to speak about what he was doing, even if he was beaten.

His hand fell back down. Vernon only sighed through his nose before he moved to wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Why were they like this?

Why couldn’t he control the strange feelings between them?

Slowly, Vernon stood up, and he stepped back himself, gathering the sense to tuck himself away as if nothing had happened, his mood still murky in his chest. Roche, to his credit, gave him a look of pity before he shook his head, turning back into the man he had known before Vergen. The irrational Commander that slaughtered units of elves without thinking.

“If I could, I’d tell you,” he said quietly. “But I can’t, and frankly, I’m not interested in anyway. You always said you hated politics-”

“I do,” he cut in. Vernon didn’t stop talking.

“-And I only deal with politics now. So, consider this the last time I’ll speak of it, unless it’s deemed necessary to fill you in.”

He had to glare at him for that. Roche barely shrugged, not bothering to meet his eyes, no longer submissive.

_No longer his._

“If you don’t mind Geralt, I’m going to go fetch some water so I can…” he hesitated. “…Get rid of this taste in my mouth. I’d prefer if you didn’t join me.”

His request took him off guard.

“No offense,” Roche muttered, but it was an after thought. One that he didn’t like. Yet, he couldn’t put into words why, or even come up with a reason why he was angry. Roche was his own individual, who dealt with things he couldn’t care much about, and spent his days obsessing over strategies that didn’t benefit him. He had no real ownership over him, yet he wanted to. He only abused him for his gain, his mind tricking him into thinking it was a need, when clearly it was one-sided.

He could fix it.

He only needed to say a word.

As the Commander began to walk away, his mouth opened. He did so without thinking properly, but he knew it needed to be said. He needed to do something. “Roche,” he called.

Vernon paused, looking back at him over his shoulder, waiting. Yet he didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t know how, and finally, Vernon turned, giving him a strange look. Waiting for him to continue. _To fix it._

The tension between them spiked and once again, he was lost. He didn’t understand what he felt, other than he wanted control, and in that moment he knew Roche was not willing to give it up. Unless he said what they needed to hear.

_That he was sorry._

He closed his mouth and he swore he saw Vernon wince in pain.

He couldn’t do it.

That was that.

Roche left without a word and he merely stood in the alley, feeling the remnants of what had transpired, his addiction no longer soothing his veins. Only did it matter? In the grand scheme of things? He had the Wild Hunt to deal with, along with helping Triss and eventually traveling to join Yennefer in Skellige. Ciri was out there, trying to become a ghost, not allowing him to catch her scent while he was being distracted by a hunger worse than consuming Fisstech. Of ideas he refused to let blossom in his head, or ones that had rooted too deeply and were messing with the structure of his mind.

Roche was nothing, yet he was everything.

At the end of the day, he was going to have to stop. Cut himself off cold and return to what mattered. Except he kept stalling. As if the longer he did, maybe the words would come. He would understand what needed to be done. That Roche was _important_ to him.

But maybe things were better left unsaid, that things weren’t understood. And with that, he turned, looking down the path he was choosing. One he knew he needed to stay on, for he was created for that purpose. Even if the one behind him felt more inviting; Beckoning him, taunting his mind. Didn’t he want to know?

He sighed, shaking his head, and once again he swallowed down the hunger for satisfying himself. The itch that needed to be scratched. A distant longing and regret he brought upon himself. He was a Witcher. Invitations only meant something if there was a price at the end, and his goal was for something more. His daughter, his love, and the price he was paying for them. His foot took the first step down the alley steeped in darkness. The first he would take after swearing to stop. Yet he couldn’t help but look back.

_They would be better off this way._


	5. Detective (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started May 29th, 2018.

“Roche,” he said carefully, studying him hard. This was now a mere courtesy to ask. “Were you masturbating before I came?”

There was an immediate reaction from him, where he felt the tension between them grow thick, heightened with anger and clear hints of shame. He didn’t need a Cat Potion to see how Roche’s heartbeat started thumping faster, almost recklessly, while a harsh flush began spreading over his cheeks.

“No,” he spat, offended by his insinuation. Except Vernon wasn’t speaking to a being that would apologize, nor feel any remorse over the accusation and prying. He was used to people lying, and Roche’s countenance only added to his theory. Secretly it made him sigh. Hadn’t they come beyond this? He knew what he was, didn’t he? Or did even Vernon Roche forget his abilities?

He lazily focused on the fidgeting man in front of him; How Roche was bent over in his chair, angled in a way he knew all too well, his body trying to hide a clear and obvious erection but he was seated strangely. His blood was coursing through his veins, the smell of male arousal and tallow clear, but it was beginning to send mixed signals. Something was going on, he just couldn’t pick out what.

Even when he pretended to rub at his neck, his eyes flashing as he heightened his awareness, the room was too muddled with various scents and clues to really give credence to his question. Had he been masturbating? There was too much of an overpowering scent of tallow to justify it. When was rendered fat ever used in torture sessions?

“Roche,” he finally said, thinking the facts over. He was missing something crucial, he just didn’t know what. “I don’t care if you were. You can do as you wish-”

“I wasn’t jerking myself off, Witcher! Now what do you want?” he snarled, his nails scratching the arm of his chair making him blink. “I-I’m fucking busy!”

The stuttering made him cock his head, but the look of absolute hatred on Roche’s face had him reconsider. If he was smart, he’d back off and leave. Whatever Vernon’s problems were, they weren’t his. Yet a nagging in the back of his mind wanted to pry. Why was he situated so strangely on his chair.

As soon as he leaned over, bracing himself on the desk, he watched Roche flinch and immediately shudder in response.

“Geralt-?” he snapped back to himself. “Geralt, ge-get the fuck out of my office!”

He frowned, watching how fast Roche’s heart was beating in his chest, the small organ vibrating in his chest as his face splashed a flushed blood red. It was abnormal but not concerning - not like some instances where he watched men seize up and die, especially when witnessing a wraith or manticore for the first time. This was fear.

He sniffed at him, the scent of tallow now bothering him. There was an undertone. Oil?

“Geralt!” Roche nearly shouted, and he only leaned in further, letting his eyes dilate, gazing at Roche in a manner that made him swallow and shrink back. He was close to figuring it out, he just needed a hint.

“Olive oil?” he asked. Vernon blinked, his face changing to one of utter confusion. “…Blade oil?”

“What?”

His heart had slowed and he focused harder. It was neutral and damn hard to pinpoint, especially in a room where hundreds of other things had happened before. Lingering tones of iron from blood, strange perfume, medicinal tones of herbs and bark. Yet he spun the wheel in his head, picking through everything he knew as he watched Roche and how he was beginning to sweat, the scent unique.

Something clicked. “Rapeseed oil?” Roche’s eyes turned stern and he frowned. Rapeseed and tallow? “…A lubricant?”

Roche’s heart pounded like a war drum once more.


	6. Celadine (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 8th, 2018

He had invited him in just to bloody talk. That was it; Nothing more or less. After all, it was his damn job to collect information, and the Witcher always seemed to have more than his fair share. People - _soldiers_ in particular - seemed to trust him more than they should and it loosened them to confessions. Things he needed, especially when it came from a Kaedweni or Nilfgaardian mouth. 

It was probably due to his lack of emotions and strange, calming presence. At first he placed it up to witchcraft. Witchers and Sorceresses had their tricks- _Axii_ he believed it was called. But the longer Geralt hung around him, the more he realized it was his nature rather than magic. The bastard judged others as harshly as any loudmouth in a bar or whore at a brothel, yet it never felt like he did when speaking to him. Again, his absence of emotions probably helped in that field.

Regardless, he merely wanted to press him a little, see if he had learned anything while in the Kaedweni Camp, maybe about Dethmold or a plan or something. Soldiers were too wary to say anything interesting when he spied upon them, and more than once he found a square coin sitting on Henselt’s desk. He needed this shit to work and Geralt was his only option.

But instead of them speaking like equals, he found himself pressed to his damn mattress with the bastard on him, his hand dangerously close to somewhere he didn’t want it to be.

He asked him to _relax_ , not ploughing bed him!

“Geralt-!” he spat again, trying to shove him off, but the prick was a hell of a lot stronger than him. Not wonder it felt like he had been struck by boulders during their previous fist fights. “Get off me!”

There was a hum of acknowledgment - As if, yes, the stupid git understood he said something. Yet he didn’t get off. If anything, his struggling seemed to be more of an aphrodisiac, and he was twisted onto his side, a leg getting between his two as Geralt pulled his back flush to his chest.

That hand, again, was hovering over where his codpiece lay. “Geralt-! Witcher! Get _off!_ ”

His tongue hit his ear, tracing it for a moment before his teeth joined in and moved to tugging on his lobe hungrily, his groan sending a hard shiver down his spine.

He had just wanted to talk, not engage in… this.

“Geralt,” he spat, dropping his head so his forehead banged against his bedding. The bastard paused - So now he listened?

“Hm?”

Gods curse them. “If you’re… Going to do it, then be fucking quick. Before anyone hears.”


	7. Flotsam (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 8th, 2018.

Gods help his sorry ass, he was nearly going delirious. He could have locked his door, or at least pushed something heavy against it.

 _Would have, could have, should have, didn’t._ Story of his damn life.

“Brings you back to Flotsam, doesn’t it?” Geralt muttered into his ear, taking him off guard. He swallowed helplessly against him, trying not to think about it. “When I found you at night, using-”

“Geralt,” he growled, his body shaking. He wasn’t revisiting that nightmare of a situation, nor ever thinking about it again. Why did he turn so helpless and stupid around him? He was trained for the most intense, stressful situations; Survived Mahakam in winter, brought down rebellions, smoked out whoresons and bastards. Yet one damn Witcher brought him to his knees. Made him into this. “S-Stop talking and just help me… Help me…” He could barely finish his sentence as Geralt started thrusting his fingers harder into him, his legs beginning to shake at the sensation. He was nearly on the cusp of giving him what he needed. Just an inch or more, angled to the right. Or was it the left? 

Did it _matter?_

“O-Oh gods, help me come!” he begged, his right hand grasping the Witcher’s forearm, trying to force him to go faster. He swore he heard him purr in amusement, but with how much noise he was making, it could have just been him going insane.


	8. Honeysuckle (Geralt Voyeur)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started June 20th, 2018

It wasn’t raining for once. A rare miracle he silently reflected on as he approached the Temerian camp, the trees around him cracking and swaying in the cool nighttime wind. It seemed to be every time he even thought of approaching the partisans, the clouds would form and unleash a downpour on him that soaked even his bones, as if the heavens were warning him not to bother with beaten down soldiers. Amusing, in a sense, but the gods never did dictate what he did. Seemed that night they finally gave up.

It suited him fine. He had come to the camp for a reason - the only question was whether or not he was going to get what he wanted.

At the entrance, he was greeted by a weary soldier, who raised his spear for a second before recognition registered on his face. He didn’t take offense - What was there to left to be angry about? - and quietly, he nodded to the man, watching him lean back into the rock, his own head nodding in response. That’s all he expected sometimes; Silent, mutual understanding that he was there for their Commander and nothing more. Too many times did he run across lackeys and soldiers who gave him grief for daring to set foot in a city, assuming him to be some sort of sadistic killer. As if he was there to start a massacre. Blaviken, only worse. He was used to it, but it didn’t mean he liked it. The annoyance was just deeper under his skin than most. Muted, but present nonetheless.

At least he could depend on Roche’s men to leave him be. They seemed just as tired as he was and uninterested in the business he dealt in.

Without further instruction, he stepped into the cave, and the temperature dropped. As if he had walked into a cavern carved of ice from the Blue Mountains. It prickled his skin, irritating his nose, and he frowned as he let his eyes readjust.

Fires were lit, but most were smoldering in deep dug pits, the Temerian partisans scattered around on mattresses, skins, and empty sacks, all of them clutching a weapon even though every single one he walked past was deep within sleep. He considered throwing a log on some of the fires, noticing a few of the men were curled into themselves, clearly cold, but it wasn’t his concern. They were trained to sleep in such conditions and if they were shivering, one would get up and accommodate the fire. Besides, his aim was deeper into the cave, to where their dear Commander slept.

Though, as he got closer, his brow raising at the screen that had been propped up, separating Roche from his men. Strange. He knew the Commander did like his privacy, but he didn’t expect to see a screen set up. Not only that, as he approached, he began to smell something. Bitter and oily. It reminded him of Toussaint in a sense, and he stepped over the snoring body of a soldier, making his way to the screen. The scent increased in not only potency, but thickness; how compelling.

He knew it was a scent only he could pick up as he observed the surroundings, the firesmoke stained to so many surfaces it was hard to distinguish. But he could see the particles when he focused, their hue different from the ashen grey. He adjusted his weight, stepping silently as he approached the partition, and he began picking up the distinct sounds of the camp as his reflexes heightened. The only noise in the cave came from the crackling of fires from sooted pits and the moans and shifts of men struggling with sleep and dreams. His footsteps left no mark, nor did they turn any pebble or stone, and he deftly approached the screen, listening for a second if Roche was indeed near.

He sensed a body with blood racing and it made him pause. The heartbeat he focused on uneven; Dull, quick thuds, coursing vividly through quivering veins. Someone was definitely behind the screen, but he didn’t sense any blood in the air or ground. There wasn’t any indication the Commander was wounded, causing his blood to rush in such a strange way.

Meaning Roche was doing something; Something he didn’t think the man was capable of or he was unhealthier than he looked. While the latter was definitely possible as sickness was common with soldiers, something in his gut pointed him to the other reason. Roche was a man, after all. What man didn’t have their needs?

Of course, this was deeply private, and he had no reason to investigate or even bother him. Out of everyone he knew, Roche had been the fiercest in making sure his business remained shrouded in mystery. He held his proverbial cards tight to his chest and dared anyone who wanted a look to question if they valued life. It was a boundary he usually respected - shared, actually. He knew the peace of keeping to himself. Except there was a bit of curiosity that bloomed in him. A sick sense of it, actually, to see if his senses were misleading him or not.

He was rewarded with the sounds of a muted moan echoing through the wood when he pressed an ear to it. One that came from someone trying to suppress what they were doing with cloth and failing miserably to do so.

He licked his lips. It wouldn’t be right to look. But the gods were clearly absent at the moment, and there was nothing wrong with making sure Roche wasn’t actually in pain.


	9. Vague (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 3rd, 2018.

“I don’t understand you,” Roche muttered as he casually flipped through the book that had been left on the bedside table, his mouth twitching for a second at the pages of naked women, before he tossed it down. How tiresome that literature was becoming so base and depraved. “Why are you so obsessed with baths?”

Geralt ignored him from where he sat in the basin, his head tilted back over the edge in a position that looked highly uncomfortable. It was clear he wasn’t listening to him and was enjoying his lazy position, not caring that the steam rising from the bath was sticking to every surface. It was making the small and cramped room humid and musky, further irritating him from where he stood by the bed, waiting for acknowledgment from the bastard known as the White Wolf. He crossed his arms, glaring and shifting in impatience, but Geralt gave him no heed. Ignoring him as if he were a petulant child. He merely rolled his shoulder slightly, his grey hair sticking to his neck, before he sunk lower into the frothing bathwater. Like a water hag dipping into her den.

Honestly, he looked like someone’s pampered poodle rather than a damn Witcher. And his lack of interest in even giving him a cursory glance wasn’t helping his mood. He didn’t have time for this.

Unlike the damned fool, he had things to do.

“Prick,” he snapped at him, his teeth clenching for a moment as he saw a slight hint of a smile on Geralt’s lips, before he turned to stalk the room. It was well-stocked with the common items every inn allowed - fruits, breads, water and wine - but none were particularly expensive or hard-sought. The wine looked to be a new vintage, corked and bottled in Novigrad (otherwise known as _cheap_ ), and he passed over it for the bread. Heavily seeded, over a day old, but for him it was a luxury. He knocked off the excess caraway and broke into it, checking for mold. It was thankfully free. “I really don’t care for the reason why you have an obsession with water. But I have a life, Geralt. So tell me what you want or else I’m leaving. I have shit to do.”

He again didn’t respond, his head only turning slightly, as if he was ready to fall asleep. Absolute cunt. He gave him a hard, irritated stare, but when he got nothing back in terms of response, he moved to pocket the bread. He wasn’t leaving empty handed. 

For a moment, he paused, contemplating taking more. It wasn’t as if there was a large supply of it, but something in him told him to try it - make sure it decent.

He ripped off a corner, studying it, before gently putting it in his mouth.

It tasted weird.

Fer fuck’s sake, what did he expect. This was food from Dandelion. Of course it was shit.

Behind him, water began to slosh, and he turned, expecting to see Geralt finally getting out of the ploughing tub, but instead he had only moved to shift so he could see him, his strange, unnerving cat eyes focused on his body, silently pulling him apart. It made him furrow his brows, but he didn’t chew him out for it. _Not yet, anyway._

“Roche,” Geralt said, his name coming out stiff and emotionless, reminding him of who he was dealing with. A mutant that preferred to laze around like a castle cat than the monster he was described to be. He waited, still chewing the bread, even though swallowing was a chore - Gods, it was shit; He could make fucking better bread with his eyes closed and he didn’t even know how it was bloody done - and the silence that lapsed between them was as uncomfortable as the steamy air. The windows grew white with watery fog and the mirror in the corner reflecting nothing but milky shadows.

“What?” he finally said, breaking the silence. Geralt only continued to observe him before his hand slinked out from the basin and he made a gesture. A simple finger beckoning him to come forward. Ploughing hell, was he serious? He wasn’t a damn child, and his expression must have showed his disgust at the motion, because he swore he saw Geralt smile.

Bastard still didn’t say anything and he had no choice but to walk toward him, discarding the bread on the table. A rat could eat it later - Or Geralt. He didn’t care. As soon as he got close enough, his eyes briefly flicking to Geralt’s heavily scarred chest, the Witcher once again moved to relaxed, his eyes closing as he leaned against the basin, soaking up the water. 

He was provoking him. He had to be.

“What, Geralt?” he repeated, his patience running as thin as a razor’s edge, and the Witcher said nothing. He merely sighed, rolling his left shoulder before his eyes opened, his pupils expanding as he stared at the ceiling.

“Radovid,” he started. The mere name made him stiffen. “He’s looking for Phillipa.”

That hardly surprised him. “He has been for some time,” he commented, watching how casual Geralt was being about the whole thing. Honestly, the amount of scars on him was shocking, and he quickly looked down past his stomach - only for a second - before he locked his gaze on the towel bent over the lip of the tub. “That’s hardly new information.”

“He believes she’s in the city.”

That did make him raise a brow. “Here? In Novigrad? She’d be bloody foolish to even set one foot here, what with all those idiot clergymen running around. The temple may be lazy, but they love a good pyre.”

Geralt didn’t reply. He was forced to pick apart his silence, his gut churning as he did.

“She’s not actually here, is she?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I can tell you where she was a month ago.”

“Where?”

He slowly dragged his eyes over to stare at him, a strange look dancing within his unsettling pupils. “She was located near your camp. For quite some time.”

Now he really was growing agitated. “Bullshit,” he snapped. “I would have known if that bitch was around.” He ignored Geralt’s frown, his words clearly not what he was expecting. “Have you forgotten what she did?”

It took him a moment. “Emhyr was the one-”

“She started it. That whole fucking lot,” he snapped. “And if she was anywhere near me, I would have cut out more than her eyes, Geralt.”

Slowly, his lips pressed thin. “I doubt that, Roche.”

“Do you?” he sneered.

“Phillipa’s dangerous,” he said, as if he was an idiot not to consider such a thing. “Her wards alone could decimate an army.”

“I’d find a way around her pitiful magic.”

“Roche-”

“Geralt,” he cut in, now pissed off he was even still there. Was this his big news? Phillipa? He was mocking him, wasn’t he? “Is this why you called for me? To tell me about some whore of a sorceress? If she’s in Novigrad, I hardly care. If we’re lucky, the church will catch her and skin her alive.”

Geralt sighed deeply at his words. Oh, like he fucking cared.

“Is that all? Because I am bloody well busy.”

He shook his head, incensing him more. “Sure, Roche. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

Fucking prick. Without a warning, he slammed his hands against the tub, bending over fast, his nose nearly hitting Geralt’s, but the Witcher didn’t flinch. In fact, he barely reacted, save for his eyes slowly rising up to lock with his own, almost bored at his outburst. It didn’t help him keep his emotions in check. Fucking hell, the Witcher really fucking pissed him off. It was Flotsam all over again.

“Don’t act like I’m being fucking unreasonable, Geralt,” he snapped, his fingers tight against the wooden basin, ready to snap some of it off. “You could have fucking told me in a note, or at my camp. Instead, you call me to this fucking city, where I’m already wanted on suspicious charges, and I spend an hour waiting for you while you were fucking around-”

His expression grew bored.

“-Just to tell me information I already know. So either you want me for something else, or you really do enjoy wasting my fucking time,” he accused, his teeth almost baring as he barked at the bastard. “Either way, I will remind you it is a fucking inconvenience. And I hope you-”

Geralt acted fast. Faster than he could blink or dodge. In an instant, the front of his gambeson was grabbed and he was forcefully jerked down, his grip snapping off the edge of the basin as he was plunged into the bath water. It was so damn sudden, his mind whirling in confusion, he inhaled when he hit the surface. Enough that water ripped down his throat, and he thrashed to get air, his entire world suddenly a dark flurry of bubbles, foam, and hot aching liquid. Except Geralt’s grip was stronger, enough he couldn’t break free, and he was hauled into the tub fully, water cascading over the brim to soak the floor as he was forced further into the hell. Boots and all.

When the hand left his uniform, he instinctively went up, breaking for air, coughing deeply as he did. Soap and scum clung to every inch of his skin, seeping into the crevices of his skin and belts, and he spat into the water, trying to get the taste out.

He was going to murder him. Fuck friendship - this was grounds for an early Witcher burial.

He didn’t have time to turn and punch the fucker like he wanted, the water still blinding him as he struggled to grip the edge of the basin. Geralt was on top of him after less than five seconds of him rising, his arms wrapping around his waist, and he roughly pulled him into his lap, his mouth hitting his ear. He bit down, pulling hard, ripping a strangled cry from his neck, before he moved to sink his teeth into the side of his throat. Only when he was satisfied with how he broke his skin, eliciting a shivering howl from him, did he speak.

“You’re a lot slower than I remember, Roche.”

Oh, _fuck him._

“I invited you to a former brothel. Did it not occur to you what I might really want?”

His hand was already reaching between his legs, grabbing him with a force that made him lurch forward. He grabbed at his wrists, his mind fighting to comprehend every touch, sensation, smell - his armor was weighting him down too much - but nothing helped. Geralt pulled at the end of his gambeson, pulling it up around his hips, and he was forced to concede.

He’d kill him later.

“G-Geralt-”

He was yanked back, his body becoming flush with Geralt’s and he felt the harsh tug on the front of his trousers, pulling them down so that the water flooded the space between them, exposing his backside. It didn’t surprise him when the familiar feeling of a cock hitting his rear came, though it did make him shudder. He _knew_ he had been hard. He bloody well saw it, yet he chose to ignore it. Maybe subconsciously, he wanted Geralt to dominate him. Why else would he hang around so long after getting no good information or answers?

“Roche,” Geralt hissed. “I haven’t fucked you in six months.”

He swallowed, regretting it when he tasted soap, but his mouth still went dry. “Seven.”

“Hm?” 

“It’s been seven months.”

His neck was bit again, this time with a purpose to make him bend, and he arched against his back, the water around them splashing again, sending more over the top. By now, the floorboards had to be soaked and dripping through the ceiling to the dining area below. If anyone came up, there would be no mistaking what was going on, and he found himself licking his lips. He preferred to do his private business at night, but it looked like he had no choice. Not unless he truly was ready to fight a Witcher.

Who the fuck was he kidding, Geralt would win anyway. He always did.

“Geralt,” he muttered, shuddering when a hand reached under him, moving to spread him, his damned _friend_ clearly with one thing on his mind. “If you’re going to fuck me, do it fast.” He felt him pause. Typical; He had a one-track mind. Only he was just as stupid as he was when it came to this. Seven months had been a long time and he was exhausted. “Zoltan is going to notice the floor leaking.”

He could almost hear him blink, before there was an embarrassed sigh. “Right.” His fingers began pushing into him, two stretching him like it was nothing, and he let his breath hitch, his shoulder now throbbing from the bites as his body yelled about the invasion. Where the fuck was the oil?

“Oil,” he spat, and Geralt again paused. “Get the fucking-”

“Do you have any?”

He went red as he stared at the wall.

“Left pocket.”

_This was costing him._

“Geralt?” he muttered, his gut still churning. His anger had subsided, but now replaced with exhaustion and mild irritation as the Witcher began running his hands over him, trying to find the vial. Acting as if he didn’t know which way was left - damned prick. “Next time, just tell me you want a fuck. Don’t be so bloody cryptic.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t expect him to. 

When his slickened cock finally began pushing it, it reminded him on why he put up with the prick. Why he travelled to Novigrad on an empty stomach, waiting in the tavern for more than a day for him to arrive. Why he had to sneak peeks at his body, his eyes always lingering over any hint of exposed skin.

He thrust inside in a single motion, the force jerking him hard, causing water to crash against the walls of the basin, and a needy cry caught in his throat.

Geralt was the only one who would treat him that way. And gods condemn him if he didn’t enjoy it.


	10. Unusual (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 14th, 2018.

“Geralt,” Roche begged, his voice shaking for a second as fingers dug into his hips, yanking him back roughly on the cock bruising his insides. It was as if his bones were going to rattle out of his skin if he had to endure for a few more minutes. “F-For fuck’s sakes, just finish!”

Geralt merely grunted, acknowledging his plea, but he didn’t stop. Why would he? He wasn’t the one seeing stars from being fucked like a demon. His grip adjusting slightly, as if it would help, before his thrusts grew erratic, each pound making Roche tremble. He gasped when he angled, purposely rutting against his prostrate, ignoring the fact that he had already previously cum and he wasn’t in any shape to keep going. He wasn’t a fucking Witcher - though Geralt seemed not to understand that aspect about him. Or maybe he was too stupid and forgot some days. Probably the latter, now that he thought of it.

But again, that wasn’t the _point_. He spread his legs to accommodate their position, with him half on Geralt’s lap, riding him as he furiously fucked himself toward his own orgasm, his breaths growing thin and laboured as his own vision started to grow dizzy. It would be the ideal time to tease him at that point - delay the inevitable for a better profit, as the whores said - but he was growing weary of trying to pretend he could handle it. It wasn’t if there was a handbook with what to do when a Witcher _fucked_ you.

It would probably sell well if there was. The first word of advice would be prepared to be bruised.

His back slumped against Geralt chest as he felt every part of him quake, his eyes locking on the ceiling as the bastard wrapped an arm around his neck, holding him in place. _Using_ him as if he was a toy. Of course he didn’t mean it, but frankly he didn’t care. He was at the point where Geralt could stab him and he wouldn’t give a fuck. As long as they got off, it was fine.

Then again the way Geralt always had to immobilize him in some way when they did fuck did make him raise a proverbial brow in his mind. As if he was told he was really half a wolf when he was awkwardly growing up - or sprouting or however mutants were raised - and he took that to mean he needed to act like it when he was ready to burst. Or maybe it was his thing. Prick did wear a lot of strange gear - too many _belts_.

A hot breath hit his ear, distracting him, and he heard the hitch in his breath. A growling, angry sound which made him shudder in anticipation. He was coming, and it made him lick his lips, his toes curling slightly as Geralt bloody well tilted and pounded, pulling him firm to his body. All to make him tighten and squirm, the stars forming in his eyes again and he forgot just what the hell he was thinking. Bloody Geralt. He never played _fair_.

“Geralt-!” he whined, and he heard the heedy, grateful groan in response. Fuck it, he had to give in and just melt against him and take it.

Except it wasn’t his normal landslide of cum, where he’d sink his teeth into his neck and fill him, then make him remain still while he made sure he breed him right. Again, like a wolf - now it was sounding creepy in his head. Whatever. This time, he didn’t act so savage and stupid. He pulled out, and Roche felt him burst at the last second, hot, thick seed hitting his ass and thighs. Sputtering on him like a damned inexperienced teenager.

Seriously?

_And where the hell was his ending?_

“Geralt-” he went to complain. He hated having to spend and hour wiping off his bloody thighs and damn well jerking himself off, but when he turned to look at him, Geralt didn’t acknowledge it. In fact, he let go of him, lightly shoving him off like he was some common brothel baggage, leaving him sitting with his hole open and cum dripping out of his ass. “Geralt?”

Again, he didn’t look at him. He merely slumped back, moving to rub at his face. That was it? He had better finished using the hilt of his dagger.

“Geralt, what the fuck?” he muttered, glaring at him before he started to look for a cloth. Something to wipe himself off - hell, maybe even Geralt’s uniform. Bastard kind of deserved it. He started to move, leaning over the edge of the bed when a low, uneasy sigh came from the Witcher. Enough that it made him pause, his brows knitting. It wasn’t a normal noise Geralt was making.

When he raised his head, the Witcher’s eyes had changed. The usual bored gold was gone; They looked possessed by something inhuman. Monstrous.

“Geralt,” he repeated, and his bloody unsettling gaze didn’t pull away from him. Instead, he merely stared him down, like he was about to turn into a fiend and swallow him whole. Gods, he was unnerving as all ploughing hell sometimes, yet he didn’t inquire further. He merely met his eyes back, waiting, his skin growing cold as he sat half-naked and intimidated.

The Witcher finally spoke, but only after he looked him over twice, each glide of his eyes making his skin crawl. It was too much like a wolf that was sizing up a wounded deer. “Roche, I may have done something before I came.”

His eyes narrowed at that, yet he could see Geralt shifting. No, almost twitching. Ready to pounce and maul. “…What?”

He pressed his lips thin. A prickling came to the back of his mind. What the hell did the whoreson do now? _Why wasn’t he getting the hell out of there?_

“I may have taken something.”

“Taken _what?”_

He didn’t reply. Instead he merely stared at him, then reached between his legs, gripping his cock. It was only then that he clued in.

Geralt was still hard.

Oh, fuck.


	11. Persuasion (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started December 1st, 2019.

He really hated how intimate they were. How Geralt’s breath kept heating up the back of his neck, his fingers constantly teasing him but never pushing in fully. Just testing the waters, so to speak.

Beating him with an oar sounded like a good rebuttal in that moment.

Yet he was ploughing pinned to his thin mattress, mounted from behind by the prick known as the Butcher of Blaviken, a position he never thought he’d ever be in. _Ever_. And, fuck, said monster was a hell of a lot heavier than he looked. As if the Butcher had eaten an entire stall of meat before getting his moniker. Or perhaps that was how he got it and everyone just made up shit because of how frightening Geralt appeared in real life.

It was the opposite of how he found him. Sarcastic and rude, distrustful at times, but Geralt came off more like a nobleman’s hunting hound than a dangerous, terrifying wolf. Especially when said dog got the idea that he could hump whatever he wanted. Which he was beginning to feel as his ribs ache from the constrained position he was in. Gods damn Geralt of Rivia. And himself for being so stupid as to let the dog piss on his leg.

“Geralt,” he growled, but the prick didn’t care. He nipped at his collar, getting right near the spot that made him buck and snarl for breath, but he was careful not to reward. Gods, he hated him. Why was he like this? “Geralt-!”

Didn’t he get it? Was he this stupid?

_Or was he purposely fucking with him._

Who goddamn knew?

The bastard rubbed the tip of his wet fingers against him before he could stumble on his thoughts further, nearly giving in, but at the last second he pulled back. _Again._ He had already done this twice and this last time was starting to make his sanity waver.

“Fer fuck’s sake, Geralt,” he spat, hating that he had to bring himself to protest what he was doing; To verbalize it. It gave it too much legitimacy and only made his face flush a hot red, making him even more uncomfortable. Vernon Roche did not _beg_. “Either shove your damn fingers in me or get out of my fucking tent!”

That made the prick stop, but only for a moment. As if his weasel brain was trying to comprehend what he was demanding. It made him shift, sucking in a breath. Plough him for forcing him to continue speaking. “I mean it-!”

One slick finger began pushing in, not stopping, and it shut him right up as his mind scrambled to feel the invasion. How different it was from his own. Even worse, if he was correct and his heated thoughts accurate, the bastard had just plunged his middle finger into him; A silent ‘fuck you’. 

Geralt had better not have been doing that on purpose, otherwise he’d snap his finger off with his ass. 

_Explain that to Triss._

“Geralt-”

The Witcher shoved him into the mattress, pinning him hard, but this time his mouth planted against his ear instead of his neck, kissing with a hotness he never experienced before. It momentarily drew stars into his eyes and a dark shudder rippled down his body, his cock tensing and leaking in shock. He always ploughing underestimated Geralt’s strength and how easy it was for him to dominate, but this was beyond that. He unfortunately deserved it, and the moan that was ripped form his throat when the prick did it again was punishment for loving it.

“Roche,” Geralt muttered, his voice emotionless and calm. It never failed to slightly unnerve him. How could he do such things without cracking? Showing any sign of fever or lust? “You talk too much.”

Was he bloody serious? “Geralt,” he hissed, his fury coming back, and he clenched around his finger in agitation. Fuck him right back. “Fuck me or get the hell out of my tent!”

The Witcher, irritating and heavy, let out a snort. Or was it a chuckle? Who could ever ploughing tell? But it did prompt him to slip in another finger, opening him up more. He, in turn, let out a hot, unintended groan. He shouldn’t be letting his mouth run, but subtly and silence were never his strong suit. “I’m g-going to need more than two, you prick.”

“Roche, if you don’t stop talking, my entire fist is going to be inside you in a moment.”

He nearly laughed. “Try it,” he snapped, even though something in him warned him not to fucking provoke a goddamn mutant. He probably would try. And, knowing his twisted mind, he’d like it. “I’ll remind you who lost the last time fists were involved.”

Geralt deliberately bit down on his neck, making him yelp. Gods, his teeth were sharp, and he whimpered and struggled in vain. Like a vole under the claws of an owl. “You took me off guard,” Geralt muttered when he released. 

“W-Witchers should never be off guard,” he huffed back, the pain momentarily boiling his blood. Bloody hell, were his damn teeth filed into fangs? He never actually looked. Did it matter? Another finger was slipped in, slickened from thick potions and saliva, and he arched into Geralt’s chest, his legs spreading wider. Three deep and he still wasn’t satisfied.

Gods, what would his cock be like if this is what his fingers did to him?

“Neither should Blue Stripes Commanders,” Geralt said. It took him a moment to realize he was quipping him back.

“Fuck you,” was all he could stutter back before he bit his lip. “G-Geralt.”

“What?”

He was beyond the point at being embarrassed about it. He bloody well needed relief. “ _Fuck me._ ”


	12. Restrained (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started December 29th, 2019

“Fuck, Geralt, you can’t-!” Roche fell back again, fisting the sheets the best he could, his chest heaving as he tried to control himself. He only smirked inwardly to himself, carefully watching the arrogant, vicious Blue Stripes Commander flail and fight. But only to make sure he gave him no proper contact. Nothing comforting or plentiful to relieve the clear pressure building in Roche’s cock and balls. “I-I’m-!”

“You’re what?” he asked, bored. His tone was bordering on malicious, but considering how Roche had a tendency to act out when aroused - teeth, nails, sometimes a fist - he didn’t feel too bad about torturing him. He merely reached down to flick the tip of his finger against Roche’s dripping cock, getting him worked up to a point he could see was painful. This was why he had found a pair of locking cuffs. Dimeritium infused; Meant for mages, but a special forces commander wasn’t that far off from using magic to free themselves. He had seen how easy Roche could pick locks - or smash them open if he was being really impatient - and it was the best he could use. Dimeritium was notoriously hard to break and he wanted Roche’s hands out of the way.

Again, he drug the tip of his finger around the underside of the head of his cock, watching as it twitched and the dripping precome soaked into the bottom of his cotton shirt. Roche merely made a low, deep groan and strained against his cuffs, clawing at them to make them break despite the uselessness of his action. He fought hard to try and calm himself, his teeth gritting hard as he sucked in a breath between them, but he could see his blood rapidly pounding through his body, his heart twitching as fought the rushes. His cock was pulsating with need, clearly needing to be properly grabbed and brought to release, but he remained still above him. Watching in fascination.

How violent Roche was even when drunk on desire.

Vernon’s aroused state was clearly being fought with whatever he was telling himself mentally. He could see when he let himself go, embracing the desperate lust he needed so that his muscles clenched and his thighs shook. Then he’d pull back, trying to calm himself, the blood heating his cheeks intensifying. He would go rigid, his head tossing, and his cock looked like it wickedly ached as he repressed his desire before he’d give in again. A cycle of insanity and ecstasy.

A dark thought slipped into his mind. How easy would it be to torture Roche in that moment? Ask him questions? Make him spill secrets? He quickly set that aside. He was a Witcher, not a spy, and whatever Roche told him would be useless and irrelevant regardless. Instead, he could keep trying to see how honest he really was.

Gently, he wrapped his fingers around his cock and squeezed and Roche nearly snapped his spine with how violently he arched. His mouth fell open, head tossing back, and he loosened his grip just to listen to Roche begin to beg, his pulse turning rapid and feverish.

“Geralt, don-t!” He groaned, deeply. Echoing from the bottom of his lungs. He was losing his mental fight and he merely stared, his own cock twitching from watching Roche’s reactions. Like a chained dog that was going wild over a passing rabbit. “Geralt-!”

He wanted _more_.


	13. Confessed (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started February 13th, 2020

“Geralt,” Roche muttered, leaning heavily on the door frame, his face half cast in shadow. He only rubbed his eyes using both hands in response, really not in the mood as he swung his legs over the bed. Did they have to do this now? “I… Well. I meant it, you know. What I said. I-”

He was stumbling over his words, trying to act innocent - As if Vernon Roche ever could be at that point - as he slouched and fumbled messily with what he wanted to say. He had great patience for a lot of things, but that night he wasn’t into indulging this.

For once, he understood how Yennefer felt that night. Being that drunk was a mistake.

“Roche,” he cut him off, giving him a tertiary glance as he rolled his shoulder. He stopped mumbling at the sound of his name but he could see his blood was sloshing about in his body. As if his veins were full of beer instead of blood. “I would believe you more if you didn’t say such things while you stared at-” He hesitated deeply at the next work. “-My cock.”

Indeed, the drunken fool’s eyes dragged down and he could practically smell how aroused he became just by staring between his legs. It was one thing for women to confess adoration to him in the heat of the moment, but it was a hell of a lot different when the most rigid prick he knew said it. Especially while drunk and _especially_ when gazing at him with a hunger that matched only starved aghouls.

He rubbed at his face again, listening to Roche shift once more against the door. “I think you should call it a night, Roche.”

“…Yeah,” he mumbled. “Maybe.”

“No,” he said, trying to be stern. “You should.”


	14. Chance (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started March 13th, 2020

“Geralt!” Roche begged louder, his back arching in a painful curve. “S-Stop it!” His tongue choked over his words as he pulled against his restraints, trying desperately to free himself. He, in turn, pulled harder at his pinched-red nipple, tugging it with a bit of cruelty, sending Roche into another slew of curses as he buckled to his fingers. “Fuck-! Fuck, you fucking prick!”

His insult got him to harshly tweak his skin, forcing a hard bark from Roche’s throat that bordered on hoarse. He contemplated doing it again, but watching the whoreson slowly become reduced to near tears was enough for the moment.

Without warning he released and the relief drew a hard, dry sob from Roche’s throat, much to his own amusement. Vernon was too easy to tease, even if it wasn’t very fair of him to do so considering he was tied with unbreakable knots. He was basically helpless to stop anything that would be inflicted upon him, so it wasn’t a fair game. Then again, taking him off guard and getting him in such a position was a rarity itself that he did silently enjoy. Not because he was sadistic, but anyone who had ever met Vernon Roche knew what type of man he was.

Brash, seething, unmoving, and so forth. A wholly unlikeable asshole. He had witnessed what happened when his closest allies tried to rouse him - a knife was always produced from somewhere and blood always spilled; And he never cared for any consequence. So to get him on this level was almost a treat.

Even if it did happen because Roche had mouthed off too long at Triss. Clearly, the former Commander of the Blue Stripes had forgotten that underneath Triss’ sweetness lay something dark and frightening. The knots were almost a _courtesy_ from her, considering what she could do when thoroughly pissed.

He was technically punishing him for her. She wanted to incinerate his balls at first, a notion that made him flinch in discomfort. He talked her down to a mere kick in the stomach and punch in the face, both which she took more pleasure in than either of them had probably predicted. 

After, when she left fuming and spitting, he had the choice of untying Roche and letting him wheeze alone in a corner and pretend Triss’ right hook wasn’t that bad - which of course was a lie; It was brutal - and possibly listen to him rant for the next hour in his hissing, manic tone. Or he could continue where Triss left off.

Who ever said the School of the Wolf didn’t have a streak of cruelty in them? Sometimes it wasn’t just the Cats that got feral.

He reached for his other nipple, grabbing it with a harsh tug, and again Roche was sputtering in pain, his dark, bark-tinted eyes pleading at him to stop. It wasn’t convincing enough and he began to twist, watching in fascination as Roche instinctively jerked with him, a hot reedy wail bubbling out from the back of his throat. It made his own knees ache. He should have put a pillow down before he had kneeled before his prey.

“Witcher,” he gasped, his top teeth pulling on his bottom lip in a way that made his own throat run dry. “Please. Please, please, please-”

“Please what?” he cut in, trying not to sound like this was actually affecting him. This was for Triss, after all. Or the ‘she-cunt’ as Roche had so nicely spat at her. The thought made him pinch harder and Roche curled forward, his shoulders shaking as he uselessly pulled against his ropes, his wrists raw.

“Stop,” he conceded. “S-Stop. I… Fuck! I won’t do it again! For fuck’s sake, I promise!”

He believed that, but his enjoyment didn’t want to stop just yet. Harshly, he grabbed Roche’s already sore left nipple to yank, and the poor sod practically shouting as he pulled them. “Ger-Geralt! Stop!”

He didn’t ease up. “Why did you say those things to Triss?” he asked, twisting the right again, watching as Roche clenched his jaw painfully and bowed into his hand, trying to relieve the pressure. “She saved your life in Flotsam.”

Roche didn’t answer and he watched him, how the hairs on his arms were standing up, a deep shiver running through his veins. He released him once more, ignoring the hot gasp of relief he made, before he reached down and let his hand hover over his bare thigh. Triss, after all, wanted to humiliate him and every man knew the embarrassment that came with being stripped near bare. Though he had to admit, he expected more tattoos. Vernon, it seemed, wasn’t as in love with ink on his skin as the rest of his Blue Stripes had been.

The reminder made his hand snap down - hard - and he struck the side of Roche’s ass with a bruising strength. The contact made a loud, rippling snap, and it drove right up Roche’s spine, jerking him upright in shock, his eyes growing wide in horror. He did it again and this time, he yelped.

“Geralt-!”

He slapped - _spanked_ \- him again, hard enough that he nearly fell over and Roche stared at him like he was insane, his cheeks beginning to flush a deep, shamed red. He gave him a blank stare back, thankful for once that his damn mutated body was good for something. Not to mention his kneeled position kept his cock painfully buried against his leg. He raised his hand again and Roche’s mouth fell open.

Whatever he said was lost as he slapped his reddening flesh again.


	15. Payback (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started March 13th, 2020

It was undeniable he was being unfair with Roche. To his honor and credit, Vernon didn’t leave him with much of a choice. The man was abrasive and callous to the point of being tiresome on the best of days.

When the Blue Stripes Commander wasn’t trying to order him around, he was practically trying to rile him into a fight. Snipping at him about his lack of help around the camp - one he wasn’t personally apart of - or him not finding any clues on the Kingslayer. Or his focus on Triss. Or helping annihilate the Rotfiends. Or a hundred other things.

Technically, he didn’t snap. Not by the _definition_. But hearing the Blue Stripes mention Roche could fight and was _‘one of the best’_ made him hurry to find him. It was dishonorable to take out frustrations in what was supposed to be a neutral match, but after all the shit he had been through, Roche piling on top of him was the last stitch to come undone of his patience.

And it was if the camp had sensed it. Thirteen hooted in glee as Silas and Finch elbowed each other when they saw him on the move, following him eagerly to track down their Commander. It made him nearly lose his nerve until he came across Roche near the small creek, filling his waterskin with a bored expression. That was until he saw him.

“Witcher?” he frowned, his expression the same cold, hard one he had given him in the dungeons. “What now? Ploughing hell, how long are you going to slack off? The Kingslayer-”

His fist hit so hard against his jaw he swore he almost broke his own fingers. Immediately, the Blue Stripes started yelling in glee, clambering to see, calling for bets as Roche hit the dirt on his ass, stunned into silence for once. Then he registered what had happened and the murderous intent in his eyes was clear.

“Get up, Vernon,” he said, deadpanned. Roche touched his jaw for a moment with the tip of his thumb.

“You’re going to regret ever living, Witcher.”

“I’m not the one on my ass right now, _Commander._ ”


	16. Alchemic (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started March 14th, 2020

Once again he tipped another bottle of Dwarven spirit into the near-empty vial of thunderbolt, diluting the precious liquid inside, churning it from the bottom to top; A seafoam green that swirled into a pale teal. Beautiful, even in dull light. It licked at the sides, crashing in on itself and sloshing, before it slowly began to settle and the original colour came back. Spring green. Reminiscent of new grass shoots.

He was just thankful it had worked again.

Three times he had performed this within the last month - A crude alchemy meant to clean vials, not extend the potion life - but he had to make every drop last. Cortinarius was plentiful in Velen when one knew which copses and graveyards to loot, but the fungus held back from spreading far in Redania. Not enough death and decay around to encourage it, unless he wanted to go wandering into suspicious caves that stank of hairy monsters. He had to make what precious little he had last and once the glass was corked, he shook it up, trying to keep the Thunderbolt’s potency active. He had altered the recipe twice before, but he knew this had to be the last time. He was going to have to cross the bridge again and taste blood-leaden air.

It didn’t seem fair, but it was life. Mushrooms and Witchers never picked where they wished to dwell.

The groan that came from behind him made his ears prick in interest and he had to take a glance. To make sure it wasn’t a noise being made in pain - he couldn’t afford to use a Swallow potion, even if it was diluted just as far. Roche was still slumped against the bed, drunk on his orgasm and exhaustion but he could see his fingers beginning to twitch. Blood pulsed in his body, returning to a normal flow, and he could see his back rise and fall, his breaths deepening.

He was going to be conscious soon. He let his eyes move to linger at the sight of Roche’s backside, slick with oil and come, before he turned to keep shaking his potion.

The potion still needed tending to.

Roche groaned again and the sheets shifted, his fingers searching for solid reality to help with his grounding. He was waking from his blackout, brought on partially by him ploughing him too hard into the mattress. The other half was from the amount of the sheets he had swallowed so as not to make a noise.

Personally, he didn’t understand why. Under the right circumstances, Roche’s high tilted moans sounded as close to a woman’s. It wasn’t as if anyone would suspect, unless they were hellbent on knowing who the Witcher _fucked_.

He took a drink from his flask, licking his lips after to sort out the taste, pondering the smoothness that a Dwarven Spirit added to a crushed potion of leaves and fibre. It was still tinted with the taste of mint leaves; Refreshing to the palette and strengthening his muscles, and he delicately placed the Thunderbolt down so he could turn to watch the infamous Blue Stripes Commander rise from the sleeping dead. 

Or attempt to. He tried and fell, and they were back to square one. Where he was staring at his backside while Roche heaved and sucked for breath.

Vernon lay splayed out like a wounded deer, his left leg sliding to hang off the bed, accentuating his lithe frame, while the rest of him tangled against sheets and cloth. Hiding parts of him beneath a snowy white sheet, the wrinkles stretching down from his angular curves. Torn leggings, a partially ripped gambeson, and undergarments that were shredded with the quick work of a dagger were strewn under his body, and for a moment he realized he looked like a Fiend kill.

Morbid but accurate. Perhaps he could have held back a but before ravaging his… friend.

Roche moaned, his body rolling to press flush against the fabric, stomach flat against it, before he finally spoke. A rough, aching voice, sore from hours of begging and howling. “Ah, fuck,” he drawled, his intake of breath scratchy and bitter. “Ah, f-fuck… fuck, my ass…”


	17. Torrential (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started March 15th, 2020

Sometimes it was too easy with Roche, even if he was notorious to track down when he needed him most. Through heavy rains or wind storms so vicious, even he felt the cold, he could always rely on him to fill his cup - whether he wanted to or not.

The thing about Roche was, once he was cornered, the former Temerian Special Operatives Commander had a tendency to turn feral; Rude, if proper terms were used. He wasn’t a man of speeches, but he could rant as well as the best of them, putting Zoltan to shame at times. Spouting off about dignity and stains and other nonsense every time they met, as if such things would dissuade him from having his thirst taken care of.

But it was easy to turn the tide. As soon as Vernon was on his stomach and his backside was coated in thick oil - Relict was the best, he found, after months of experimentation - he grew complacent. Needy; _Greedy_ , even. His legs would open like a well-worn book and his resistance would all but dissipate, lost in the torrent of understanding what it was like to have a parched throat quenched with liquid.

He didn’t always prefer him like this. Once in a while having him fight back was a thrill. They were both canine in nature. He was a wolf, though tamed better than most, and Roche was a dog that had been groomed but still bared fighting teeth. When he was being particularly bothersome, goading Roche into a hot spar before he pinned and dominated him got them off like nothing else. The shudder of victory and taste of complacency in defeat was best savored when their meetings grew stale.

But he had to admit when Roche was sucking on his fingers as he fucked him, his legs spread wide and his eyes rolled back, it did affect him more than when he was trying to rip out his throat. It was a complete shift from his dominant personality; The one that demanded respect whether the parties involved wanted it or not. Such bitchiness and insufferable outbursts grew tiresome after a time and ached at the bones when he wanted him to just shut up and suck him off. Seeing him lay spread on the ground, face covered in come and his hole ready to be fucked was some of the last joys he had when returning North, and he refused to give it up. 

It was a sight he knew he was only privy to, and the end would leave him drained but refreshed. Like finding an untouched spring in a mountain valley - The first immersion unbearable until the body got used to it. Then every ache would be cleansed and rewarded. It was a sex he never could achieve with Yennefer or Triss - to fuck without care, being rough, biting, scratching, digging blunt nails into shuddering flesh and not feeling a pull back or hurt at the intensity. Roche met him back thrust for thrust and with an equal amount of ferocity, not caring when he drew blood or left his flesh redden and sore. It was amount the moment of release and doing it like an animal. Hounds in heat, so to speak. 

Roche didn’t want emotions involved, he just wanted him on a primal level that he understood. Drunken, mindless sex, filled with quelling a lust and scratching a deep itch. It was why he had a tendency to always find himself on the other side of the Pontar. Seeking out damp caves full of jumpy Temerian soldiers who smelled as ragged as they looked. Because his match would be inside, waiting, and sometimes willing to do the unspeakable.


	18. Oren Toss (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started March 16th, 2020.

They had pushed each other too far again. He was exhausted, his body aching as he laid back on the pillows, completely spent, while Roche was collapsed on his side at the end of the bed, still struggling from his orgasm. He hadn’t meant to ravage him in such a way, but there was always loose boundaries between them. Ever since Loc Muinne. It made him rub his face, his mind struggling between the clarity of post-orgasm, with its regrets and guilt, and the want to just say _’fuck it all’_ and do it again.

For a moment, he contemplated flipping a coin on it. If the oren landed on the crown, he’d use his brain. But if it landed on the lily; His eyes shifted to Roche’s backside. Naked and soft, his flesh still wet from oil and come. 

He could go again. If not, there was always potions for it.

Before he could convince himself to get up and stagger to his belts, Roche started shifting, his body moving so he was on his stomach for a moment until he gained the strength to push himself up with his forearms. He could see the marks on his neck from where he had bitten him - red rings of ownership - but he found himself focusing on the Temerian lilies tattooed on his left hip bone. The ink was fading a little, a few of the edges bleeding, but it was still clear how he was marked. Forever a Temerian, even if it didn’t exist anymore.

He coughed, rubbing at his face, before he awkwardly tried to get up. The wincing was a little over dramatic - then again, he did go hard on him.

“You all right?”

He wasn’t shocked by the angry look Vernon gave him, his brows deeply fixed in irritation.

“I’m fine,” he growled, wiping at his mouth again. He managed to get a foot on the floor, balancing for a second as he pushed himself up, and he cracked his neck, hissing as he did.

“You don’t look fine,” he pointed out as he leaned back against the pillows, his eyes unable to stop wandering down to his backside.

“I wonder why that would be, Witcher,” Roche muttered. It made him slightly smile and he could feel a snickering of lust rising in his gut once again.

“Roche,” he grinned.

“… _What?_ ”

“Can you hand me a coin?”


	19. Pressed (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started May 23rd, 2020.

“Roche,” he breathed, unable to hold back. He hadn’t expected him to take so much of him at once, his gut churning as it fought with his lust, desperate to quell the ache - but the whoreson cut him off before he could say anything more, pulling off his cock with a wet, sucking pop.

“Be quiet, Geralt,” he growled, giving him a look that could kill. It didn’t help tame his hunger. “I don’t do this often and I especially don’t like it when anyone talks to me while I do.”

He gave him a blank stare. Curiosity filled him, distracting him as his mind immediately begged to ask why. What was the reasoning? And for that matter, how often? Was he allowed to moan at least? What if he disobeyed? Yet his mouth wasn’t in control, his cock was, and it knew to keeping quiet was the damn key to getting off. No matter how much his conscious vibrated to start drilling Roche for answers.

So he pressed his lips thin, giving a nod, and Roche signed in return, his eyes flicking back to his prick. He wet his lips again, making a bit of a face as he pressed his tongue against his cheek, before he thankfully leaned down and began swallowing him up again. Past his teeth to the sinfulness of his throat, the wet muscles lathering his shaft and cockhead up again. Roche took his damn, sweet, delicate time inching down, adjusting as he went, his head tilting as he relaxed.

He ended nowhere near the base, but it was enough that when he swallowed, the sensation rolled over every inch that was in his mouth. Hot and slick, and feeling damned better than he thought it should. Like his cock had been slipped into its own personal frothing bath.

Only Roche began to pull back, releasing him from his heaven, and in a panic, he reached down and fisted his hair. Hard; A reflex more than anything. It made Vernon stop, but he felt something on his shaft. Pressing.

Teeth.

Slowly he looked down and caught the eyes of a very pissed off bastard glaring at him. He wasn’t afraid of following up with his threat.


	20. Straps (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started May 24th, 2020.

The last clasp was slightly stuck, bent from the impact of a previous fight. Which one, he couldn’t tell as it could had been any number of fights he had been in recently. Nekkers had made him trip and collide with a tree root in Velen; Sirens had thrown him against the stony beach in Skellige off the coast. Could have even come from the drunken arm wrestling match he had at Dandelion’s, something his ‘friend’ was still sore about. As if bloodstains couldn’t be washed away with some hard work. It wasn’t as if he _killed_ the man either.

Whichever one of the monster contracts or fist fighting he had gotten into had ultimately resulted in a bent clasp and he finally had to pull out his dagger, slipping it between his chest and the metal hook to try and pry it back into place. It was just small enough so the tip wedged in and he could bend it back without cutting himself, and as the metal gave way, he felt himself breathe in relief. It took another wiggle before he was able to finally free himself from the confines of his armor, but the carefulness had been worth it. Joana had spent days working on it for him and he was grateful to keep her skilled craftsmanship in tact.

Not to mention he didn’t have the coin to fix it. As small as it was, every blacksmith and armorer knew how to bleed him for money.

He sheathed his dagger carefully, taking a moment to shrug off the top of his leathers in a manner that let him roll his aching shoulders as he did. Another reminder of how damn old he was getting. He took care as it slumped off his arms, catching it before it hit the floor, as he set it down over the chair with as gentle hands as he could muster; Folded over the top awkwardly but enough that it wouldn’t fall. It was then he noticed the small amount of dirt smeared on the bottom, as if painted on. Right where his hip would rest. Logically it was probably acquired from his rolling, but an inspection made him doubt it. Nekker might have almost grabbed him, judging by the direction of the mark. He leaned down, using his thumb to carefully chip away the dried dirt when a hiss behind him made him pause.

Sheets were being moved rapidly as an angry thudding sounded from behind, and he waited until it settled. Just so he could hear the strained breathing and awkward sucks of breath. Then he continued, cleaning his armor with delicate precision, scraping with the soft tips of his fingers where the callouses hadn’t formed so as not to leave a mark. Leather had a nasty way of showing every bit of fussing ever applied to it.

He finished by using the edge of his shirt to brush away the last sign of mud against the tanned leather, shaking it out beside the chair to be swept up later. It wasn’t sparkling clean, but it looked decent and professional now. Fit for walking around Novigrad’s Temple Quarter without anyone sneering at him for his shabby appearance. Now they’d just give him angry looks over the fact that he was a mutant, something he could live with. He didn’t enjoy it, but glares were easier to ignore than scoffs like he didn’t know how to bathe himself. He wasn’t bloody _Lambert._

The thrashing behind him started again and he finally sighed, turning to look at bed where Roche lay bound, blinded, and gagged. He was pulling at his restraints again, a soft sheen of sweat soaked over his body, and he could see his teeth digging into the leather bit. Biting it with a ferocity as his forearms strained to break the metal bonds that held his wrists to the head of the bed.

He wouldn’t have had to go to such extremes if Roche hadn’t tried to punch him, but then again it didn’t surprise him in the least. Despite looking as if his temper had been dampened by war and time, Roche was still as big of a pain in the ass as he had been at Loc Muinne. His vengeance had been diminished after months of trauma, but his fury had not. Meaning he was just as vicious as a young cast-out wolf. Cautious, but still sporting a jaw of sharpened teeth.

Only he knew how to reign the unruly bitch in. Closing his mouth so he couldn’t bite and locking his claws so he was pacified to behave. His feet would become a problem - he ran out of chain - but at the moment he was exhausting himself with his bound wrists.

Softly he began to make his way to Roche, making sure he didn’t make a sound. It was unfair to use his skills in that context yet he couldn’t help himself either as he approached the exhausted bastard. Below, the cheers and songs began to grow louder, the girls of the Passiflora clearly causing a ruckus, and he used it to his advantage. The thudding of stomping feet, the muffled yells and roars at the obviously rambunctious event unfolding below allowing him perfect timing in stepping on creaking boards. He crossed the room to his chained prey, contemplating placing a hand on him so he could feel his beating heart, but he merely settled on ghosting his fingertips over his body. Mere millimeters from touching Roche’s flesh yet still far enough away that he could react if he began thrashing again. Surprise was the key in taming the Temerian whoreson and he had no intention of letting him relax once their game began.

After all, he had to repay him for his back, didn’t he? The scars were still there. Healed, but forever on his body. And Roche still hadn’t apologized.

At the apex of the roaring downstairs, when the floorboards began to rattle, he finally laid the tip of his nail on Roche, his skin hot even to the smallest touch. Instantly, he flinched - as expected - and his nostrils flared in anger to show his displeasure, but he paid no heed to the display of puffed-up fury. Instead he pushed his index finger harder into the center of his bare chest, watching as he shivered at the contact and his stomach and guts moved as he swallowed. He added another, sweeping the tip of his middle finger over his hard skin and he trailed them up to his throat, watching as Vernon angrily sucked in a breath, his lips curling back to show his teeth embedded in the bit. Seething over his predicament.

He merely stretched his finger out when he came to the tip of his jaw, catching the bottom of his chin to tilt his head back.

Roche growled; Deeply and angrily. It made him slightly smile.

He drew back, watching as Roche kept his head motionless for a second before he huffed, drawing in hot breaths before he uselessly thrashed again, trying his damnedest to free his wrists.

“You’re not going to get loose, Vernon,” he said quietly, enjoying the scene with a slight tinge of amusement. It was cruel, but he never said he was a saint. Roche hissed and a muttered, muffled sound came from behind the bit. Angry and pissed, but clear enough that he got the just of what he was snarling.

_‘Fuck you, Witcher’_.

He half smiled at that. It was so easy to think Roche had been neutered over the last six months. He had observed how utterly exhausted and docile he was when he strode into his camp, a change from the reckless soldier who had once broken a bridge and thrown his sword into the heart of a Kaedweni soldier. What had once been a whirlwind of chaos and revenge had turned into a man who sighed and grew silent, second-guessing every action.

It accumulated. Roche had refused to let Ves go on raids, using talks and pondering instead of fighting. Even his reluctance to kill was somewhat shocking, considering Roche was the first to pull the trigger of a crossbow. He didn’t listen, he acted; That was Foltest’s hound. Yet he had shied away from such things now, preferring to collude with Dijkstra and stare at maps and letters than to unsheathe his sword. Speaking as opposed to shedding blood. He wasn’t _mindless_ , he claimed.

But fangs such as Roche’s never dulled completely. Even though he hesitated, he still damn well killed. And, for that matter, he still threw a nasty, cartilage-breaking punch when provoked.

The reminder drew him back to his armor and he gave Roche a quick glance - His bonds were tight, there was no need to worry - before he stalked back to his gear, moving to pull out the delicate satchel lined with fox fur and chimera scales that he kept near his breast. Inside lay some of his most critical supplies and he carefully held the bag, reaching to pluck out a small vial wrapped in leather and gold.

Witcher potions. Dangerous to humans, vital to mutants. Each he had painstakingly crafted, spending hours crushing herbs and softening them with alcohol and tallows, turning flower petals into clear liquid that burned and gagged on the tongue. Extracts of pure celadine, mandrake, wolfsbane - whatever was needed. _Enhancements_.

He only needed one this time.

He sifted through, taking his time as he listened to the sweet music of Roche growing furious while the Passiflora swelled with music and sex, the atmosphere rising to a crescendo he felt eager to join. He had to be careful as a single crack in a vial would render it useless, but his search came to an end when his fingers laid on what he sought. Tawny Owl - enhanced in potency thanks to a chance encounter with an Arachas. He hummed in approval, lifting the vial to the light to see how bright the purple liquid was, before he placed his bag down and began working on the cap.

This was cheating and he knew it, but again, he never claimed to be a saint. Sometimes even Witchers needed help and his stamina was needed at length for the night. He paused after uncorking it, the verbena giving it a floral scent, and he took a moment to steel himself, thinking of the battle to come. Though rituals were not something he did for himself, he took a moment to meditate before lifting the vial to his mouth.

Roche began to thrash again, just as he started to swallow, and the poison flooded his mouth with ease, sending a shockwave through his muscles and making him hiss from the taste. It wasn’t enough to make him look possessed, but gods, he felt every vein in his neck pulse as his body hungrily absorbed every drop. His flesh knew what it was and craved it just as much, right down to the tip of his cock. 

Patience. He needed to breathe. Everything would be sated in time, and he smiled as he heard Roche rattle his chains once more.


	21. Thread (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started June 5th, 2020.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened between you and Ves?” Geralt suddenly asked, making him pause in his sewing. He frowned deeply at the question, giving him a purposeful confused look, and the Witcher merely shrugged from where he sat with his arms folded across his chest. Why did he always have to look so damn smug yet emotionless?

“No,” he said, mimicking his deadpanned voice. He focused back on the thread and needle, sucking on the end for a second to re-wet the string before he attempted to once again slide it through the tiny hole. Once again, it refused to cooperate, and he angrily shoved it back in his mouth, this time flattening it between his teeth. Dragging the thread between them to grind it down to a point again.

“Do you need help?”

“No,” he muttered, his irritation rising. Why the fuck was he there? To irritate him? “And I don’t know what you’re on about with Ves. Nothing has happened between us.” He tried again to thread the needle and once more the end bent and split, making him grit his jaw. “We’ve been through hell, Geralt. If you haven’t ploughing noticed.”

“I know. You mention it every time I come by,” Geralt said, though his voice held a distinct tone of dismissiveness. He sucked on the end of the thread again, this time twisting it between his closed teeth, his anger now bubbling.

“Fuck you,” he snapped, shoving the damn thread into the eye of the needle. It buckled, flicking off the small opening, once again splitting, and he nearly threw both needle and spool into the fire. Instead he took to angrily tossing it on his desk, throwing his torn shirt with it. He was too tired for this. “Geralt, the fuck do you want? Because if you’re just here to ask me stupid questions and waste my time, you can get back on your horse and go piss off someone else.”

He barely reacted to his frustrated outburst, save for blinking. Gods, he was a bastard.


	22. Contest (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started June 16th, 2020.

Fucking prick was having too much fun with teasing him. _Emotionless_ he claimed. _Unable to understand._ Ploughing liar. He could see in his mind’s eye the smile smeared on Geralt’s aggravating face as he pressed him into the mattress again, rocking his hips just enough to make him hiss. His body was tightening due to the damned cock stretching him to an unbearable point, and he knew this was what the absolute bastard wanted.

Yet he really could only blame himself in that moment. He had let the boys bring in a crate of liquor - confiscated legally from the Kaedweni camp, naturally. As the kegs were popped and mugs were filled, everyone wanted to test themselves against a witcher. How much could he really drink? Could he outlast them all, the mighty Blue Stripes? The _greats_ from the Temerian army.

This wasn’t like it had been in Flotsam, a night he only heard about secondhand. Geralt had learned his lesson and was now determined not to make an ass out of himself. Not without bringing them all down with him in the process. That was how it began. _Stupid._

Of course it started out impressive, with Geralt matching a tankard of ale with Thirteen, but quickly bled into insanity when the lager was cracked. The Witcher had an atrocious singing voice - they all did - but the faster his mugs were filled, the more he began to loosen and hunger. Bets on poker, dice thrown so hard they ricocheted off the board and into the dirt, arm wrestling matches where he took two at a time. He became stupid, like the rest of them, but he had personally made the mistake of underestimating Witcher stupidty. While he rolled his eyes, content with a single cup, Geralt and his boys grew increasingly belligerent and obnoxious. What he assumed on the aftermath was based on Flotsam; Geralt waking up like last time full of regret and shame, and he’d cease his oafish stupidity for taking on matching drinks with nineteen liquored Blue Stripes.

Only Geralt stalked to his tent after he had caused a mess everywhere, his hunger not sated from drinking alone. Slurring stupid words, mocking him for being a lightweight, bumbling into his tent.

He could - _should_ \- have knocked him out. Flat on his ass with one punch, and a good kick in his stomach for good measure. But instead he let his wrist get caught and his body pulled in flush with the bastard, his reflexes not the only slow thing that night. How could he not had known? Or felt it? 

His senses were dulled a bit from so-so ale, but any man would have known what was happening before he clued in. If he wasn’t dulled, the Witcher would have had no chance. But he kept underestimating him. Assuming he would go rut a prostitute or convince Ves for something that he couldn’t provide. 

Only Geralt didn’t want them. He wanted _him_. And before he could comprehend it, the bastard caught him and dragged him to the ground. Convinced him to not stab him repeatedly in the throat; Accept a bare hand against his stomach.

He struggled again, his mind blanking as Geralt thrust harder, but even sober, he had no chance. The Witcher had won the moment he had grabbed his belt, tugging it to be free, and he didn’t hesitate long enough to realize what it meant. The ass wanted his _ass _.__

__The question was, would he be able to walk that morning?_ _

__Or was he going to have to torture an ‘emotionless mutant’ in revenge?_ _


	23. Bets (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started June 21st, 2020.

It was easier to think of it as his own when he stared at the lilies on the tent wall. The learned movements he acquired from pleasuring himself, his grip tense but loose enough to try and stimulate what he wanted. Fingers slick with oil so the callouses softened and turned his palm into a comfortable heat. If he didn’t focus on the fact that he wasn’t feeling the building pleasure from the action, or that he was pressed flush against a friend, then it was acceptable.

But he couldn’t keep pretending. Not when he could feel how fast his stroking had driven Roche to the edge, the bastard still refusing to look at him as he bit the edge of his chaperon. Sucking on it to stifle any moan; Keeping himself perfectly quiet, which was half-shocking, considering how much Vernon liked to bark and snap. Still, he had the choice of continuing his quick stroking to bring his companion to release - it would finish the bet between them and he would be free to roam as he wished - or to drag this out. Have Roche feel the agony of being denied and helpless. For him to understand the discomfort of sweat running down his back as he was refused freedom. To make him experience something that made his own nerves shudder.

He could win without contest. Or push for something more.

That was the turning point in it all. He found himself delaying because _Vernon Roche_ needed to be teased to an edge. He had gone too long without understanding the heat.

Gods, what had he become?

Of all the hells that apparently existed, one had to be influencing him with how strange he was acting. Maybe the nearby battlefield was affecting his own sanity. After all, the doomed wraiths and wandering draugirs were giving him a sharp headache when he stood near the cursed grounds for too long. Muddling his senses like direction and rationality. Had to be, for him to decide this outcome from a bet. Or it could be the tension between the Kaedweni camp and the Temerians. Palatable and unnerving. Leaving him on edge and unsatisfied. But the likelier option was the most obvious. 

He wanted to drag such a display out to see how Roche reacted - this whoreson who had him whipped, despite his sincere apology in Flotsam. He accepted, but the dissatisfaction lingered. His last few weeks with the Blue Stripes had been arduous, the discomfort waxing and waning but existing, and it was about time for him to confront Vernon Roche. The past was settled but his inhumanity still bothered him.

Was he even human? He had to know. It was just a little prodding after all, and the Blue Stripes had practically given Roche over on a silver platter. The push for him to open up so he could see what lay beneath such a man’s exterior. What could be laid bare, as he had done to him. If there was any point in revenge or if humiliation would be enough.

It was why he had agreed. It had been easy to trap Roche against the center pole in his tent after the flaps had closed, his expression thick with confusion over what the hell he was doing; Something he was questioning himself. After his fingers got to work dragging his cock out, mulling over how he wasn’t disgusted by holding it, he had reminded him there were no stipulations on terms. They both verbally voiced acknowledgment of the bet.

If he won, he was free; The end. No more tracking him down to snarl orders, or accuse him of anything sinister. Roche would have to shut the hell up. If he lost, then. Well.

Best not to think on it.

Only instead of an easy victory, he caught a glimpse that Vernon was perhaps a bit more complicated when he held him flush to his body. He didn’t seem affected by him hissing in his ear, not visibly. There had been a second where he saw something other than anger in his expression - almost like wanting - and it made him stumble over his own movements with slight shock that he wasn’t conceding. The flutter of his eyes and the press of his lips together in contemplation wasn’t what he thought his reaction would be.

He expected him to throw his hands up and give in to the loss. Didn’t this disgust him? Horrify him as it should? 

Only Roche uttered two words, both hard in tone and tinged with arrogance.

“Do it.”

He wanted the challenge. And it sickly mirrored his own.

He had to have lost his mind. The want to unravel Roche’s damned pain-in-the-ass personality and witness him experience an emotion - it was sick. Unsettling. Roche was a man, same as him, yet he made the first move to touch him when he could have raised his fists. There was no justification in why he had thought stroking off the Commander of the Blue Stripes was a good idea _for a bet_ , yet his fingers had remained on his shaft, his body pressed into his back. The longer he lingered, the easier it was to justify.

He didn’t want to hurt him, not with a fight that would be clearly unfair. There was no contest if they were matched together and he knew Roche probably came to the same conclusion. He was an asshole, but not stupid or cruel. So wasn’t this the next best option? That if he got him to admit it - physically or not - that Roche craved desire and intimacy like he did, then he would be the victor? And it would prove something else; Vernon Roche wasn’t just a man of singular instinct. He had depth, even if it was shallow in words.

Roche was just as human as he was.

He squeezed Roche’s cock and he felt him shift against him, his backside pushing against his own aching prick, as if he knew what he was thinking. Why this was happening. He had to know he was teasing him in turn because he suspected he wanted something else. A desire - a yearning. Would Roche give him-?

No. He was going mad. He was delusional to think this was anything but him torturing the son of a bitch, especially when he saw his gritted teeth. Desire was more human than this and just from the way he was acting, it was like this was Roche’s first taste. He felt nothing back except irritation - that’s who Vernon Roche was. Yet his hand continued stroking his cock as his eyes slid to study the man against him. Watching to see if he would yet reveal something. A moan, a whimper - maybe even a whisper of a name. Anything. An emotion he could understand too.

This was more than him winning.

Again, he tightened his grip, and his reward was to see Vernon’s cheek twitch, the corner of his mouth rising for a second, baring dull white teeth and the slight pink of his gum, before he settled. How quickly he readjusted to an agonizing situation. It was admirable; Even interesting. Did Temeria train him for such control, or did such things come naturally to Vernon Roche? This ability to adapt? Maybe they weren’t so different. Maybe he could enjoy this as well. It wasn’t like Roche was awful to look at.

A surge of desire flooded his veins and he couldn’t help but nudge Roche in the neck with his nose. He needed confirmation. Validation. He was gripping his prick, after all.

Immediately, Roche flinched, his eyes snapping open to deliver him a frighteningly nasty glare, one filled with a loathing he had even done such a thing. It made his hand slow down, a shiver running down his spine to the back of his legs. As if he was facing Bullvore. He kept forgetting Roche was like a feral dog - Tolerating people up to a point until his patience broke like a brittle stick in a river eddie.

But his own cock was beginning to pulse against its confines, something he knew he had to have felt as he pressed himself further into him.

“Roche,” he mumbled. Would he lose the bet if he loosened up himself? What did his skin feel like? How fast did his blood rush through his veins? “How close?”

He seemed loathed to even reply, so he chose not to. He narrowed his eyes at him, his jaw tightening on the cloth closed between his teeth, before he turned back to stare in the other direction. It somehow stung. Why was he so defiant all the time?

“Roche,” he pressed, squeezing his cock to emphasize his frustration at his rebellious attitude. He knew he was difficult, but this seemed purposeful. He wanted the attention. _Speak. Say something._ Tell him what he _felt_.


	24. Focused (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 8th, 2020.

“Oh fuck,” he couldn’t help it, his legs spreading voluntarily as Geralt delved deeper into him. “Oh, fuck! Oh fuck-!” He was losing his mind and even covering his mouth didn’t help. “Fu-Fuck!”

The Witcher remained stoic despite his vibrations, his expression neutral even as his fingers thrust in harder, delving into a part of him he didn’t think possible with no emotion to show for it. It was as if he had detached himself from the situation, ignoring his shaking and horrid need for pleasure in lieu of getting the job done. It was aggravating - insulting. And fucking getting him off harder than if Geralt was actually engaged.

He grabbed his wrist, trying to slow him a bit, but the bastard didn’t let up, only giving him a harsh look; Warning him not to do anything. Daring him to try something.

In reality, it only made him want to break the Witcher’s jaw - and ride his cock at the same time.


	25. Defeated (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 9th, 2020.

“Geralt,” he spat, furious as the bastard pushed him harder against the wall, his jaw hurting as it slammed against the wood. Not like the Witcher would care. Damned bastard was drunk off his ass and currently, well. Beating his. In more ways than one.

It had been stupid to provoke him, but he had consumed a drink or two of his own and his judgment was slightly off. Not as bad as Geralt’s, but enough that his reflexes weren’t what they should have been. Really, it was idiotic to think he’d even have any contest against a Witcher, but he never was good at making solid smart decisions. Even with the taste of blood in his mouth, the thought to concede didn’t exist. He had to fight back. Giving up at that point would be shameful.

Only Geralt had him pinned. He was pressed hard against the outside wall of the Inn, the Witcher’s strength near unfair as he twisted his arm around his back with ease as if he was tying a lace. Mindless mutated asshole. “Geralt!” he snapped, fighting the urge to give up as his muscles screamed in pain. “You’re-!”

He was pushed harder against the boards, the pain blinding as Geralt leaned into him, his breath drenched with ale. “O-Okay!” he spat, feeling his shoulder nearly pop. “Yo-You win! You win, you cunt!”

That should have been the end of it. His wrist would be given back, his cheek peeled from the wall, and Geralt would stumble around like he just fought a Championship round, to fall into the Inn and get praised for being a lout. Only Geralt didn’t move. He leaned in too close for comfort, his body growing flush with his, and he stiffened as he felt his mouth graze over his ear. It was slight enough that he couldn’t tell if it had been intentional or not, but still too intimate for his liking. He shuddered deeply at the next point of contact; Geralt’s mouth brushed his neck, where the collar was too exposed. 

He swore he was placing a lover’s kiss on his skin.


	26. Justify (Roche Voyeur)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 12th, 2020.

That was the worst thing of all, in his eyes. Geralt was obnoxious, sarcastic, rebellious, and pathetic. Sometimes all at once. He fucked off at the best of times when needed, wasted crucial minutes picking damned flowers at the worst, and despite how many times he lectured him, trying to drag him back on the path of avenging his fucking King - he served Foltest, for fuck’s sake, and his former Ruler held him in high regard - the stupid bastard still lipped him off.

What he deserved was a knife between the ribs. He could easily do it too. Just take out his blade, stab him eighteen times in the heart, and walk the fuck away. It’s what he should do, even though Geralt was sleeping and vulnerable and it would be a dishonorable kill.

_Like he hadn’t done it before._

But, damn his fucking self, he was still haunted by his problems - his disgusting needs. And at the moment, the only reason his blade was held back was because of what he could see. The absolute worst part of Geralt, visible through thin blankets, the Witcher having no qualms about modesty or any damned sense of danger even when they were in the thick of it. 

And the blasted thing looked _beautiful_. 

He twitched his fingers for a moment, trying to force himself to retreat. He could go back to his damned tent and forget this and just snip at Geralt in the morning about his lack of motivation to find the Kingslayer. Remind him of how thin the razor’s edge that they were on measured. No one wanted them there and he was included in that - they were all at risk. 

Or he could look for a second. Or two. See why Triss was so adamant about pulling him away, why the whores all cooed and purred when he passed.

Fuck, what was wrong with him?


	27. Startle (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 26th, 2020.

“How often do you think of him?”

It was an odd question to be asked; It had taken him off guard, making him pause in his writing. He found himself studying the Witcher, judging him from every angle, piercing him with his gaze so he might reveal what he truly wanted. But Geralt stood still, his arms crossed and his expression quiet, the shadows of the fire flickering over his pale skin. It left an uncomfortable silence to settle between them. One neither was willing to break.

The truthful answer was ‘every day’, but voicing it felt wrong. They hadn’t been kin, nor was he special in any way. He had made him feel that way due to his personality, that much was true. The charisma and upbringing that had raised him made him so memorable. But it still didn’t break the line between them. What he was asking was beyond intimate; He wanted to know a part of him he needed to silence.

Quietly, he tried to sift through his other papers, still refusing to say anything, but the innocent inquiry began to weigh on his shoulders. Was it so wrong that he continued to think of his King, even months after his death? Would the years fade him in his mind, as his mother had? Or would be be able to recall the small things while he aged? The laughter, his smirk, the way he commanded and reacted to the court with dignity and grace.

What would happen when he woke up one day and forgot what he looked like?

“Roche?” Geralt said, his name startling him like a deer in a meadow. It made him once again stare at the Witcher, but this time he felt the weight push down on him more. If he admitted it, what would he do when he forgot? How would he react when asked to recall a memory, some which were already slipping away?

The Witcher tilted his head at him, as if sensing his sudden fear, and he went back to his papers, shuffling them quickly so he wouldn’t have to think.

“I’m busy,” he finally said. “I’d prefer if you didn’t distract me.”


	28. String (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 15th, 2020.

He hated him at the castle, tolerated him in Flotsam, respected him in Vergen, and fell in love at Loc Muinne.

It sounded so stupid it retrospect. He had prided himself on his judgment and nothing he had gleaned over the past two months had made Geralt seem as anything further than a war dog. He had opinions as every other being did, but it was far too easy for him to default to neutrality. Acting as if no decision was better than most, pretending like he didn’t hold a stake in any conversation that could come back and bite his ass. In short, he was acting like a diplomat - ready to judge at the drop of a hat, but never wanting to reveal his own cards. It was ploughing infuriating.

Except, as the months went on and he was forced into closer quarters with Geralt, his observations and dismissiveness of him kept being upended when pressed. When he could listen to the Witcher for a moment without it revolving back to politics. Sometimes - if pushed - he would speak a truth. His dislike for people based on how they treated him (a matter he could understand) and his confusion over the love of a con-woman boasting they slew a dragon (no evidence was suspicious) was agreeable. He spoke kindly of his blades and routine, adding in a love of war horses and good spiced ale, before admitting he despised pompous displays and banquets.

He played dice poker with the men and didn’t cheat or hex anyone when losing. When wrestling and sparring, he acted honorable and played no tricks or ill-bred moves. Even when everything fell apart and he witnessed the same death - the destruction of everything he loved - he didn’t judge nor mock. He understood the loss and allowed him to vent his anger without interference. He let him plunge his blade into a King and silently mourn in the night with a bottle.

But above all else, he had called him a word he never heard before in reference to himself.

A _friend_.

It infuriated him the first time he heard it, but the more he dwelled, the harder it was to ignore the pound in his heart. How dare he and yet, how dare he refuse it. Two months was too short of a time to understand another human, let alone a mutant, yet Geralt didn’t see the time as any hindrance. He acknowledged him as an ally - someone to trust. And it scared him for a second that he could be so stupid and naive to think he was a man not to be associated with anything but malice and pain.

It furthered when Geralt had began touching him. Light, often shadows against his skin, but he still felt his shoulder touch his. How he would knock the tip of his finger against a stud in his belt to indicate direction, or lean in until his breath ghosted his skin to tell him what he had overheard from the various camps he had access to. Subtle yet intimate, a concept he didn’t know. But it seeped into him the longer the days went on. Where he was forced into a claustrophobic ruin where every word was double talk for something else and every action either an rehearsed play or a whim to save one’s hide.

He wanted him to touch him. He wanted his pale fingers to make proper contact with his skin.


	29. Surviving (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 26th, 2020.

“You can fish?”

He paused midway through skewering the trout, not bothering to hide his confused and annoyed expression as he stared at Geralt. Did he really assume he didn’t know how to care for himself? Sometimes he had to wonder if the Witcher wasn’t secretly a dullard. “Of course I can. Why are you surprised?”

He shrugged, growing silent though watchful, and it made him scowl as he finished weaving the butterflied fish through the stick, turning it over twice to make sure it was secured. As soon as he secured it, he gently placed it to lean over the edge of the fire, the skin near-instantaneously curling over due to the heat. He picked up the other fish, moving to gut it, when he felt Geralt draw closer. This really wasn’t how he wanted to spend the evening.

“What?” he snapped. Once again, the stupid git merely stared at him like he was the insane one.

“What did you use?”

He blinked. “For what?”

“Fishing.”

Was he humoring him? He honestly couldn’t tell. “My prick, Geralt.” It was his turn to blink in shock. Gods, he was idiotic. Or maybe he was sapping him for something to use against him later - he couldn’t tell. “Ploughing hell, a pole and a line, Witcher! What do you think I used? Have you never fished before?”

“Where’d you get fishing line?” he asked, this time sincerely, as if he didn’t know. It made him truly stare at Geralt, studying his curious face. He had seen the man butcher soldiers and cut the heads off rotfiends, yet he honestly seemed puzzled at this. It was sad, in a way.

“I carry it with me,” he finally said, subtly tapping his hip. “Do you not have supplies for surviving with you?”

Geralt frowned, giving a light shrug. “No.”

It was his time to balk at him. “What do you do when you’re hungry?”

“I eat.”

“What?”

“Anything.”

Fucking tits. He was serious, wasn’t he?


	30. Movement (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 31st, 2020.

He pulled off with a harsh, wet pop, panting as he did, his jaw aching. This was the second time he had thrust up into him, and he was getting tired of it. He couldn’t bloody take so much of the damned bastard at once, and if he did it again, he swore he was going to choke. “Geralt,” he spat. “I told you not to move.”

The stupid witcher stared at him, utterly pathetic, as if he had bit his dick. He remained silent, which only pissed him off more, and he sharpened his grip on his cock, forcing an uncomfortable grunt out of him. This wasn’t a damned discussion. He either could still himself or he’d make him a eunuch. 

“Roche,” he warned. Fuck him.

“Geralt,” he bared his teeth. He wasn’t the one on his knees.


	31. Glacial (Geralt/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 3rd, 2020.

It made him twitch, the shudder bursting up his spine, nearly making him light-headed. He had let down his guard too much and was now paying for it in every sense of the word. “Geralt-!” he began, wanting desperately to cry out, but he suppressed himself. Swallowing the moan, gagging on it, before he twitched as the damn Witcher’s middle finger rubbed at his already stretched hole, contemplating entering along with his index. It was an awful, teasing feeling. “You… You’re…”

“Hm?” the bored reply came. Gods, he despised his emotionless tone and attitude. His entire being, in fact. He should have left him to rot in the dungeon instead of spreading his legs for him like a common whore.

“F-Fucking cold!” he spat, stammering on his words, trying to concentrate on what it was he was trying to convey. “Yo-Your fingers are fucking cold!”

Immediately Geralt stopped flicking around inside him, as if he didn’t realize or even feel such a thing. Was he really this absent-minded? This cruel? Then again, he was the Butcher of Blaviken and pacifier of Vizima. A dumb White Wolf on the hunt. Yet it still did shock him how dumb he seemed to be and unaware he was of his surroundings. 

Maybe he only cared if a monster was nearby, not when his damned fingers were shoved up another man’s backside. “Your st-stupid fat fingers are cold!” he repeated, focusing his emotions on the angry feeling that hid behind his struggling ecstasy. It was just easier that way.

Not that Geralt seemed to notice. He merely pulled back, using his free hand to spread his flesh more, making him squirm and snap, and he wriggled around his wet insides for a second before pulling back, oil dripping off his fingers. The loss didn’t feel great either.

“I don’t feel cold.”

Fucking prick. “Your fingers are cold. How many times do I have to repeat myself?” he growled, his chest heaving as his thighs and ass ached. He needed to be filled - fucked. Anything. “It feels like you’re shoving ice up my ass.”

“Something’s lodged up there,” Geralt muttered and he twisted to try and see him. He didn’t quite hear what he said, but it was in that same dry, sarcastic voice he used. Which meant he was being a smart ass.

“What?”

“Nothing.”


	32. Embers (Geralt & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 6th, 2020.

He was drenched in the nightmare again. Over and over, he relived it. The falling sensation, the crack of his ribs, the failing of his duties, _everything_. He was trapped within it - broken planks, biting embers, and flames that seemed to laugh as they licked at his skin. Every night he faced the bridge and every night he failed. Like a sick loop of déjà vu in his mind.

It always ended the same, though. With him jerking awake, his skin frozen with sweat and his heart pounding. No matter how many times he went through it, it continued over and over, haunting him like a penitent. Mocking him for his slipped steps and slow run, for being stupid enough to collapse under the belly of a dragon. The only relief he got was when he was too exhausted to dream, when his body crashed into the sagging boards of his poorly built bed, his mind blacking out before the Dragon could come to torment him. But sometimes even then he couldn’t escape it; The mornings when he became lucid would bring the memory again and he’d be forced to wake with gritted teeth and trembling hands.

He stopped lighting the fire at night because of it. It didn’t help the physical symptoms, but mentally it relieved the pain. So he wasn’t breathing in choking smoke that he thought came from the mouth of a beast, or hearing crackling embers like the ones that ate the supports of the bridge. It was a temporary block. Until, of course, some soldier re-lit it, thinking it was an act of kindness to do so, though it only prolonged the damage, unbeknownst to them. And there was no admitting to it; A Commander did not show weakness.

That was how Geralt met him for the second time. Exhausted in every sense of the word, unwilling to sleep despite it. He didn’t hear him enter - no one ever fucking did - but when he spoke, it knocked him out of his fight against himself. Where he had been staring at the embers of the fire he had doused, wishing they would extinguish forever and never light, his eyes glazed over with a helpless resignation. He just wanted one night without some horror reminding him of his failures. Once, he wanted to sleep and forget who he was.

“Roche,” Geralt said, his voice emotionless and strangely comforting, and he gazed at him with a drunken expression. He was too tired to be shocked at that point to be surprised he had materialized out of nowhere, and when his eyes finally found his unsettling shining ones in the dim light, he blinked slowly to focus. He looked well.

The same couldn’t be said for himself.

“What?” he asked, his brain catching up after a second to remind him to stand, and he struggled to lift his weighted body off his chair. The metal of straps and belts felt like chains, his under mail like a demon trying to drag him down, but he managed to stand, using his sword as a makeshift balancing cane. Geralt cocked his head at him, frowning, and he ignored it. He was well aware of what he looked like, but talking about it was not an option. He wouldn’t bloody understand anyway. “Did you consider my request?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” he admitted. “Ves can take care of herself.”

Of course she could. How utterly typical of him. If he had come just to deny him, he could have sent a damn letter, and the realization of it made him dig a palm into his left eye. Figures that Geralt would refuse. He did always like Ves more. “I know she can, that’s not the issue-”

“Roche,” Geralt muttered, cutting him off. Drawing attention to him - noticing. “Are you alright?”

No. “I’m fine.”

“You look-”

“I’m fine,” he spat. Ploughing hell, why was he there? “What the fuck do you want, Witcher?”


End file.
